Out of the Dark
by MrsFWDarcy
Summary: "Who do you think has been keeping you alive all these years?" "If you had any decency, you would've let me die." Hermione gets hit with a mysterious curse during the Battle of Hogwarts which leaves her comatose. She wakes after 12 years in St. Mungo's to find Draco Malfoy is her healer. CC until the final battle/EWE Dramione. Dark themes. M for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sun shone brightly through the cheery yellow curtains adorning the lone window in the otherwise stark white room. He'd hung them himself, thinking she might appreciate the little pop of colour. The sunlight streaming through them was artificial, of course, as her room was situated in the shadow of a towering high rise and was, therefore, constantly in darkness. No one wanted to look out at the dingy streets of muggle London anyway, so the windows had all been charmed to reflect a scene of the caster's choosing. He always gave her sunshine. Not the glaring sun of a hot summer day, but a fainter, more hopeful sun; the kind you might see on the first truly warm day in spring.

He parted the curtains with a wave of his wand and performed a few routine maintenance spells around the room, which he insisted on handling without any assistance from the mystified members of the janitorial staff, and sat down beside her. He removed a cup of coffee, a bacon sandwich and a hash brown from a greasy paper bag, laid out his breakfast on a small tray table and began to tell her about his plans for the day as he ate.

"I heard Mrs. Mullins in room six is going home today. It took some doing, but they were finally able to shrink her foot back down to its normal size. It turned out to be a pair of cursed bedroom slippers. Apparently the curse only activated when she tried to take a step, so it was always the right foot that swelled up and never the left. Took them ages to figure it out. Could've used you up there. No doubt you would've had it sorted in no time."

This had become a part of his daily ritual. He cherished the quiet moments spent in her room. Even on mornings when he couldn't think of anything to say, he would read her articles from the newspaper, or whatever book he was currently reading. He simply enjoyed sitting with her. Her presence had an oddly calming effect on him.

Most of the staff thought him mad for spending so much time with her, but Draco didn't much care what they, or anyone else had to say about the matter. His friends had long since stopped questioning his bizarre preference for spending time with 'the brain-dead bint' over a night out at the pub, where he might have a chance of actually meeting a girl who could at least keep up her end of the conversation.

Wiping the grease from his hands, he tossed the remains of his breakfast in the bin, unfolded his newspaper and began to read aloud:

" _International Quidditch League in Uproar over Breakdown of Wage Negotiations...season ticket holders demand refunds for missed games, as the start of the Quidditch season continues to be delayed…"_

"I don't suppose you're terribly concerned about the goings on in the world of professional Quidditch, are you? As I recall, you never did care for the sport."

Draco thumbed lazily through the rest of the paper, looking for something that might pique her interest.

"I'm afraid that's all _The Prophet_ has got for us today. That's the trouble with peacetime, Granger, not much of interest in the paper."

He sighed, setting the paper aside, and looked over at her; lying there so peacefully, looking for all the world as if she were asleep, which, in a way, she was. Just as she had been for the past twelve years. Just as every healer in the wizarding world said she would be for the remainder of her days. Kept alive by a series of spells that regulated her breathing, heart rate, and ensured she received proper nourishment.

"Irreparable brain damage..." and "…kinder to let her pass," they'd said. After a while, even her closest friends wanted to throw in the towel – "we know 'Mione would never want to live this way…" but Draco wouldn't hear of it. Not when it was his father's curse that put her there.

It happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. The battle was nearly over and it had become increasingly obvious the Death Eaters were going to be defeated. Draco's mother had dragged him through the Great Hall while Lucius ran ahead, casting curses wildly in all directions, with no intention but to escape with his wife and son. Granger had been duelling with his aunt Bellatrix when one of Lucius' curses connected with her. He'd hit her straight in the back and Draco had looked on, horror-struck, as she crumpled in a heap on the floor.

Draco had assumed she was dead. He'd followed mutely behind his parents through the Great Hall, too stunned to be of any use in the surrounding battle and simply left her there, lying face down on the cold flagstones. When they'd reached the end of the hall, he turned just in time to see Molly Weasley put an end to his mad aunt, but he'd seen no evidence of Granger. He remembered having the irrational thought that no one else had seen the Golden Girl of Gryffindor fall, and that she'd be trampled by the crowd surrounding the remaining duellers.

But notice her they did.

Once all of the headlines declaring Potter to be the 'Saviour of the Universe' started to die down, Hermione's mysterious illness had become the talk of the wizarding world. Draco had torn through _The Prophet_ each day, hoping for some news of her recovery, but day after torturous day he was forced to look upon her frozen image on the cover, almost as if it were a muggle photograph.

He had despaired even more when they eventually stopped reporting on her at all. The last article read "…although her friends and dedicated healers think it best to discontinue the casting of stasis spells which are currently prolonging Ms. Granger's life, they do not have the authority under the law to make such a decision on her behalf. All attempts to locate any members of Ms. Granger's family have been, as yet, unsuccessful and she will, therefore, remain a fixture in the Permanent Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries until such time as a blood relative can be found."

As far as Draco knew, they never did manage to discover where Granger's parents had gone. They never even discovered which curse his father had used on her, as Kingsley, now Minister, Shacklebolt had stepped in moments after they'd fled the hall and dispatched Lucius with a swift killing curse. The consensus among most healers was that he'd cast a similar curse to the one Dolohov had used on her in the Department of Mysteries back in their fifth year, though because Lucius was not under a silencing spell at the time, the effects had been considerably worse.

The mysterious nature of her condition, coupled with his guilt over it being his own father's fault, is partly what prompted Draco to enter the Healer Training program in the first place. The moment the Ministry had cleared his name (at Saint Potter's insistence), he went straight to the famed wizarding hospital to take the entrance exam. The fact that he seemed to possess an uncanny aptitude for healing and he applied himself to his work with a dogged determination the likes of which had rarely been seen, Draco rose rapidly through the ranks, and by the tender age of thirty, Draco Malfoy had become the Head of the Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo's.

And yet, for all his training, nothing had prepared him for this, for her.

He spent the last twelve years of his life dedicated to a girl who was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. In all likelihood, she would never know how sorry he was for his part in the war and how much he wished…

No. He would not go down that road. Not again. Some doors were best kept shut.

"Well, Granger, I've got to be off," he said, effectively putting an end to his useless musings. "I'll pop in to see you later, after I've finished my rounds, okay?"

With that, Draco reached out his hands, feeling the magical aura surrounding her hospital bed. When he determined that nothing was amiss and that her stasis spells were still in place, he left the room.

oooOOOooo

Later that evening, after a long day of seeing patients and attending a variety of tedious meetings, Draco was finally headed home for the night. Tossing his healer's robes into the laundry chute, he left the staff lounge with the intention of stopping by his office to pick up a few files he needed to review before his morning meeting, when a young Healer-in-Training came tearing around the corner and nearly collided with him.

Her hair and robes were in disarray and she was yelling something unintelligible at him. Before Draco could reprimand her for her lack of professionalism, he caught a bit of what she was saying between her gasping breaths.

"...she's awake…took my wand…screaming her head off…you've got to…got to come, Healer Malfoy!"

Draco took off running down the corridor before the young healer had even finished speaking. He didn't need to be told where the 'she' was who had his young charge in such hysterics, but he was terrified to discover what he'd find when he got there.

 _To be continued..._

A/N: Many thanks to AidenK77 for being a super beta! Please review! I would love to hear your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Draco could hear the screaming long before he reached the Permanent Spell Damage corridor. He ran faster, with the young healer who had come to fetch him hot on his heels.

"What were you thinking, leaving her alone?" Draco demanded over his shoulder as he hurtled up a staircase and through a set of double doors.

"I – I didn't know what else to do, sir," she panted, clutching at a stitch in her side as they flew through the corridors. "I was just levitating her a bit, you know, so I could change her bed linens. When all of a sudden she started screaming and crying. It…it was horrible. Gave me such a fright… She got hold of my wand and started firing curses at me. Unforgiveables too, by the sound of them! She must have missed me though, because I didn't feel anything, so I ran out of the room and slammed the door behind me. That's when I came to find you," she finished, thoroughly winded.

By the time she got to the end of her monologue, Draco had reached the door. He had to shove his way past the small crowd assembled in front of it and peered in the narrow window set in the door.

His heart sank when he saw her. Much like the last time he'd seen her outside of a hospital bed, Hermione Granger was sprawled face down on the floor. She clutched the stolen wand in one hand, while the other was wrapped tightly around a fistful of torn yellow curtains, which had fallen in a heap around her head. She didn't appear to be able to move, so she simply lay there screaming and sobbing on the floor.

Knowing first hand what an irate Hermione Granger could accomplish with a wand in her hand, Draco decided it would be foolish to enter the room without another trained healer by his side. He rounded on the sweaty, red-faced trainee beside him as she stood there gasping for breath, looking expectantly at him, as if waiting for instructions.

"Very well, Trainee…"

"Michaels," she heaved. "Isadora Michaels."

"Very well, Trainee Michaels, go fetch Mediwitch Thompson and tell her to bring her kit. We'll need a calming draught…and a syringe in case we need to inject her. And be quick about it."

"Right away, Healer Malfoy."

With that, Isadora turned on her heel and sprinted down the corridor and out of sight.

Behind the closed door Hermione continued to howl. It was a piteous sound, more akin to a wounded animal than a human woman. Draco couldn't bear to hear her in so much pain. Despite his better judgment and years of training, he instructed the crowd to stand back while he slowly and carefully eased open the door and quietly stepped across the threshold.

Once inside, her cries were a hundred times worse, echoing mercilessly off the barren walls and tile floor. He closed the door behind him with a soft _click_ and her screams stopped at once. Her whole body went rigid as she struggled to lift her head.

"Who's there?" she asked, suddenly fearful. "Don't come any closer or I'll hex you!" she threatened.

"Everything is all right," Draco said in the calmest, most even tone he could muster. He took a step toward her. "My name is…"

"I said don't come any closer!"

A desperate panic was rising in her voice.

"I'm not going to hurt you…"

"Stupefy!" she yelled, struggling to lift her wand arm, unsure of the exact location of her would-be attacker.

Nothing happened. Draco was unsurprised. She obviously didn't have the energy to hold herself up, never mind perform advanced offensive magic.

He took another step forward.

"Please, I'm here to help you…"

"Stupefy! STUPEFY!" she called again, louder this time, but to no avail.

Still she waved the stolen wand flaccidly in Draco's general direction with one arm, while trying unsuccessfully to hold herself up with the other, her lolling head drooping with the effort.

"Incarcerous!" she screamed. "Expelliarmus! Stupefy! STU-PE-FY!" she practically grunted, determinedly punctuating each syllable with the wand.

Each new attempt at a spell was just as ineffective as the one before it and she quickly grew exhausted, her breaths coming in shallow spurts. Eventually she was forced to give in to gravity, letting her arms and head drop fully to the floor where she rested her forehead on the cool linoleum tiles.

"Hermione, please. Let me help you get back into bed," Draco said, crouching down beside her.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, her body tensing once more.

"Have it your way, then," Draco said, not unkindly, as he gently levitated her back to the bed.

She grumbled in protest, clutching the wand tightly to her chest as Draco magically maneuvered her into a sitting position. He fluffed the pillows supporting her back and smoothed the covers over her legs from a safe distance across the room.

Once she ascertained that she wasn't in any immediate danger, Hermione burst forth with a dozen questions and half-formed theories about the nature of her current predicament.

"Where am I? Who brought me here? Where are Harry and Ron? What curse is this? It's not the full-body bind or the leg-locker curse because I can move, just not enough to walk or hold myself up… Where is my wand? Why won't this wand respond to me? Is it something to do with this room or is it part of the curse…"

Draco was fascinated. He hypothesized countless times what it might be like if she ever woke up, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that she could go from a twelve-year coma to full consciousness in the blink of an eye. Her mind was reeling at such a speed it seemed she couldn't get her questions out fast enough.

"Please try to calm down and allow me to explain."

She opened her mouth as if to ask another question, but decided against it and closed it again. She looked at him for the first time then, her brow furrowed in concentration. It reminded him of the expression she often wore back in their Hogwarts days whenever she was presented with a finicky potion or a particularly tricky translation in ancient runes. He was tempted to smile at the memory, but one look at the present-day Hermione Granger instantly brought him back to reality and the gravity of the situation.

"Ms. Granger, you are in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries-"

"Which ward?" she asked, seemingly unable to stop herself.

"Permanent Spell Damage," Draco replied carefully.

"Oh god," she whispered, raising a trembling hand to cover her mouth. She looked positively stricken. "Wh-what happened to me? What curse did she use?" she asked softly, her voice nearly breaking at the end.

Draco couldn't help but notice her use of the word 'she.' She must think it was Bellatrix who put her here. He chose to ignore that for the time being.

"We don't know exactly. Your case is rather…unique."

"Harry and Ron…are they…?"

This time she wasn't able to stifle the small sob that escaped her lips.

"Fine. Both fine," he assured her.

Her relief was palpable.

"Are they here? Can I see them?" she asked, looking expectantly at the door.

"No…not tonight anyway. I imagine they'll be asleep. It is quite late, after all." His response sounded lame even to his ears.

She frowned at that.

"Exactly how long have I been here?" she asked. There was a definite air of suspicion about the question.

Draco sighed and turned away from her. Before he could respond, Mediwitch Thompson entered the room, with Trainee Michaels behind her.

"Oh, Miss Granger!" the mediwitch cooed. "It's so wonderful to have you up and about again! We're all just so pleased. How are you feeling? Is there anything-"

Draco silenced the older witch with a look, and her round, kindly face fell. Hermione ignored the newcomers. Her eyes did not move from his. She looked at him with such fierceness; Draco would not have been surprised if her eyes had bored a hole clear through his skull.

"How long," she demanded through gritted teeth. Her voice had become low and dangerous.

Draco replied automatically this time.

"Twelve years, three weeks, four days, twenty-one hours and…" He paused to check his watch, "…nine minutes."

No one said a word after that. A deadly silence engulfed the room. A silence so loud and oppressive, he could scarcely draw breath from the weight of it.

Draco couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Hermione's, though there wasn't much to see anymore. Her eyes were completely empty. Her face a blank mask – as hard and still as stone. It was a look that would have made any Slytherin proud. That is, until her stony façade began to crack and the silence was broken by a sudden burst of wild, hysterical laughter.

Hermione Granger was laughing. It was a terrible, joyless sound; a mad cackling that made the hairs on the back of Draco's neck prickle.

"Twelve years?" she asked through another horrible bout of mirthless laughter. "TWELVE YEARS?" and just as suddenly her laughter turned to sobbing. Powerful, gut-wrenching sobs that shook her whole body along with the metal frame of her hospital bed, adding the groaning of metal and the squeaking of springs to the cacophony of sound echoing throughout the small room.

Hermione let the wand fall from her slackened grip, but no one moved to retrieve it. Pain seemed to gush out of her every pore. It washed over them like a tidal wave, keeping the three healers at bay.

Slowly, still trembling, she wrapped her arms around herself and began shaking her head back and forth.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no…" she sobbed, repeating the mantra over and over again, her hands flying up to her face and beating against the sides of her head. Then her fingers began twining in her hair and, grabbing fistfuls of her curly locks, Hermione began to pull. Tugging and rocking and rocking and sobbing and sobbing and screaming as great clumps of hair parted company with her scalp.

He was beside her in an instant; ready to restrain her as her whole body began to seize violently.

"For the love of Merlin, help me hold her down!" he snapped at the two witches standing by the door. "She's having a seizure."

Mediwitch Thompson came to attention at once and hurried to the other side of the bed. She managed to grab hold of one of Hermione's arms, leaving Draco free to restrain the other. Hermione thrashed wildly between them, screaming incomprehensibly; her small body still wracked with tremors and sobs.

"Michaels, prepare the syringe. Two parts calming draught, one part dreamless sleep. Now!"

The trainee healer did as bade. Draco watched her prepare the injection. Though her face was tear-stained, her hands were steady.

"Good, Michaels. Now come over here and hold her still," Draco commanded.

The young witch obeyed without question, showing surprising strength when confronted with the writhing Hermione, whose screams had reached a fever pitch.

"No, no, no, don't make me sleep again. Don't make me sleep again. Please don't make me sleep again," she cried as Draco eased the syringe into her arm.

"No, I don't… I know who… please…"

Unable to fight the effect of the potion, Hermione slumped back down onto the bed and the ward was silent once more.

A/N: Everyone say thank you to Aidenk77 for being an amazing beta and sounding board on this fic! The devil is in the details! Also, if you're into H/H stories, he's written a bunch of great ones - check 'em out!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Should we re-cast the stasis spells?" Trainee Michaels asked tentatively, after a long moment.

"No. Her vitals are strong. She should be awake by morning."

Draco was bone weary, his body ached and he longed for a hot shower, but unfortunately his evening's work was only just beginning.

"Michaels, write up a report and have it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning."

She nodded once, bent down to pick up her fallen wand and turned to go.

"You did well today," Draco called after her.

"Thank you, sir," the trainee replied, unable to suppress a small smile as she exited the room.

"You're on graveyard tonight, Louise?" Draco asked, turning to Mediwitch Thompson.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I want you to monitor Ms. Granger throughout the night. She's not to be left alone, understand?"

"Of course, Healer Malfoy."

"Have Michaels assist you. No one enters this room except the two of you until I get back. I don't care if the Minister himself tries to get in. Hire security trolls if you have to. No one sees her. It'll be a miracle if someone hasn't alerted _The Prophet_ already. Rita Skeeter usually keeps a few of her flies buzzing around the corridors…"

He was talking mostly to himself now, mentally preparing for the host of unpleasant tasks awaiting him.

"Send me a patronus if anything changes."

"You know I will," the older witch responded. "It really is a miracle, isn't it?"

"Yes, it certainly is. Goodnight, Louise."

Mediwitch Thompson bade him good night and busied herself by tidying up the room, repairing and re-hanging the curtains and fussing over the bed linens. When Draco was halfway out the door he turned to look over his shoulder at the sleeping Hermione. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, marveling at each breath, completely unaided by magic, before slipping quietly from the room.

oooOOOooo

Several hours later Draco apparated onto the quiet street with a small _pop_ , landing directly in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The house loomed large as it squeezed itself into existence between numbers eleven and thirteen. Potter was already waiting for him on the doorstep when Draco passed through the garden gate.

"You got my owl, then?"

"Yeah," he said, clutching a small piece of parchment. "' _Urgent matter to discuss. Can't wait for the morning. I'll be there in an hour_. _Bring the Weasel._ ' What the hell is going on, Malfoy?"

"Perhaps it would be better to discuss this somewhere a little less…exposed," Draco said, gesturing to the empty street behind him.

"Of course, come in," Harry said, ushering Draco inside. "The sitting room is upstairs, first door on the left."

"I remember where it is," Draco said dryly, taking in the mostly familiar surroundings.

He had visited the house before several years ago when he was first assigned to Hermione's case. Draco had been trying to put together a complete medical history for Hermione with the hopes of finding some small clue about a possible cure for her condition. He needed Harry's assistance to gather information about her muggle childhood. They formed a brief partnership, even going so far as to break into a muggle doctor's office in order to 'borrow' some of Granger's confidential medical records. Unfortunately, their labours bore no fruit and their tenuous friendship dissolved along with their hopes for her recovery.

"New sofa? Very nice," Draco added, making himself at home.

"As a matter of fact it is, but I doubt you came all the way over here at this time of night to talk about my taste in home décor."

"No, Potter, as pleasant as that sounds, I'm afraid we have more pressing matters to discuss this evening. Is Weaselbee here yet? I don't want to have to repeat myself."

As if on cue, Ron Weasley came tumbling out of the sitting room fireplace wearing a tattered dressing gown over rumpled pyjamas and pair of mouldy old bedroom slippers. His thinning red hair was disheveled and his eyes were still bleary with sleep.

"What's up, Harry? Susie got your patronus. Said to come straight away, but…" he paused, letting out a massive yawn. "…I don't see what's so important that it couldn't wait 'til morning. Ginny and the kids are alright?" That's when Ron noticed Draco sitting on the sofa. "What the bloody hell is he doing here?"

"Keep your voice down," Harry chided. "Ginny and the kids are asleep."

"Sorry, mate, but..."

"Whiskey?" Harry offered, un-stoppering a crystal decanter. "It's Ogden's finest," he added, mostly for Draco's benefit.

"Thank you, yes," Draco said with the utmost civility.

"Go on, then," said Ron, who seemed completely oblivious to the tension in the room.

Harry poured the drinks and settled himself in an armchair beside Ron's, opposite the sofa.

"Now then, what's so important that you had to drag me out of bed, Malfoy?"

Unable to come up with an excuse to delay the inevitable any longer, Draco blurted out the truth.

"She's awake."

Silence greeted his pronouncement and Draco did not attempt to break it. After a long moment, the news finally seemed to sink in. Unsurprisingly, Potter pulled himself together first.

"Oh my god," breathed the bespectacled wizard. His mouth opened and closed several times before giving up on speech entirely and taking a long pull of his drink.

"Wait. He doesn't mean… You mean that she…she's… But that can't be!" Ron spluttered, always a bit slower on the uptake.

"It's true," Draco said.

"You mean to tell me after all these years you finally found the counter-curse?" Harry asked.

"No. She woke up on her own. Nearly gave my trainee healer a heart attack."

"But that's not possible…"

"Apparently it is," said Draco.

"Holy Mother of Merlin! Hermione… What are we doing sitting here talking? We have to go see her!"

"Not tonight, Weasley. Besides, it wouldn't do you any good. She'll be asleep."

"But you just said that she was awake," said Ron, exasperated.

"She was awake, briefly, earlier this evening, but…she wasn't entirely herself."

"Not herself? What are you talking about? Have her brains been addled?" Ron asked, horrified.

"No, Weasley. Her _brains_ have not been addled. She doesn't appear to have sustained any lasting physical damage at all, though I haven't examined her fully yet. She seems to be suffering more from psychological damage at present."

"What do you mean psychological damage? What have you told her?" Potter demanded.

"Only that she's been a patient in St. Mungo's for the last twelve years. But she did not take the news well. She became extremely agitated and posed a danger to herself so I was forced to sedate her."

"You put her back to sleep?" Ron asked, incredulous. "What if she doesn't wake up again?"

Draco let out an exasperated sigh.

"Of course I can offer no guarantees, but I am as sure as I can be that she'll be awake again by morning."

"So that's all she knows?" Harry asked. "You didn't tell her anything else?" He was fidgeting with his now empty glass, looking extremely guilty.

"She knows you're alive, but if you're asking whether or not I told a highly unstable patient who's lost more than a decade of her life that she's also been abandoned by the closest people she has to a family, the answer is no. Despite what you and your sidekick over here may think, I'm not an idiot, Potter."

Harry stood, casting a _muffliato_ in the direction of the staircase before rounding on Draco, but Weasley beat him to it.

"We did not abandon her!" Ron shouted as he leapt up from his chair. "We only wanted what was best for Hermione."

"Oh, really? As I recall it was the two of you who wanted the healers to stop administering the stasis spells. How exactly would killing her have been best thing for Hermione, eh Weasley?" Draco challenged, raising his voice to match, as he got to his feet.

"How were we supposed to know that she was going to wake up after all this time?" Ron replied, defensively. "According to every healer in the country, she was as good as dead."

"Is that why you stopped coming to see her, then?" Draco asked, an edge of cold malice creeping into his tone.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked. "We did the best we could in a terrible situation. Did you expect us to put our lives on hold forever, like you did?"

That one hit a little too close to home for Draco's liking. Fortunately, being a former Slytherin, Draco knew how to hit back.

"So stopping by every time one of your wives popped out a kid was the best you could do?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Ron said, seemingly at a loss for a more intelligent argument.

"Oh, and let's not forget your cursory visits on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. One must keep up appearances for the papers." Draco chided. "Though as I recall, you couldn't even be bothered to do that this year."

"Don't you dare-" Potter started, but Draco went on heedlessly. He so rarely vented his feelings on the subject.

"You want to know what I think? I think that you'd prefer it if she was dead."

He heard the crunching of cartilage and saw the blood splattered on his robes before he felt the pain. Draco didn't need healer training to know that his nose was most certainly broken. Through the throbbing pain, he registered dimly that his nose didn't hurt nearly as much as it had when Hermione had broken it in their third year.

"Wow, Potter. I'd say you punch like a girl, but that would be an insult to small girls everywhere."

"Listen, Malfoy…"

"No, you listen. I came here as a courtesy. I'm under no obligation to tell you, or anyone else about a patient's medical condition. In fact, I'm technically breaking the law by disclosing this information to you now. Perhaps it would've been better if I hadn't said anything at all and let you find out about her in the morning _Prophet_ like everyone else."

"Of course not. It's just…"

"Spare me your excuses. You can save those for Granger," Draco said and he started toward the door.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, sheepishly. "That was out of order."

Draco turned back to look at the wizard who had been his childhood rival. He had deflated a bit and looked every bit as tired as Draco felt. For the first time he noticed there were fine lines crossing the lightning scar on his forehead.

"When can we see her?" Weasley asked.

"I expect there will be a press conference at St. Mungo's tomorrow morning. Come. Don't come. I don't particularly care."

"Send us the details. We'll be there," Harry assured him. "Thanks, Malfoy. Will you at least let me fix your nose?"

"Seriously, Potter? I'm a fucking healer. I think I can handle it."

And with that, Draco left the two dumbfounded wizards behind, stepping back out into the quiet darkness and apparating away.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to Aidenk77 for being a great beta and correcting all of my Americanisms.

Please review! Reading reviews from faceless internet friends validates my self worth.

I'm kidding.

Mostly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Absolutely not," Draco said, for what felt like the hundredth time. It was too early and he was too exhausted to be having this conversation.

He'd arrived at work at six o'clock that morning in order to review Michael's report of the previous night's events. She had done an excellent job of it. But now it fell to him to relay the full account to his boss, Chief Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck.

The meeting was not going well.

"Come now, Malfoy. Be reasonable," the corpulent old wizard said. "This could be a real boon for the hospital. You know as well as I do that the Ministry has cut way back on our funding, and this…this miracle cure of yours could create exactly the kind of publicity we need right now."

A compassionate and capable healer in his day, Smethwyck had become increasingly irascible over the years, stubbornly clinging to outmoded ideas and healing techniques, especially since his elevation to the position of Chief Hospital Administrator of St. Mungo's. His focus had shifted away from patient care and centered more on finances and efficiency. He and Draco often found themselves at loggerheads.

"How many times do I have to tell you? There was no miracle cure. She just woke up…all on her own. I had nothing to do with it."

"Of course you did! Don't be so modest, my boy. You sat with her for hours everyday, talking to her, reading her the bloody newspaper for Merlin's sake! A highly innovative muggle technique, you said so yourself."

It was true. Draco had told him, and anyone else who hassled him about the amount of time he was spending on Hermione's case, that talking to a comatose patient was a common and highly effective muggle method of stimulating brain activity. So what if it wasn't exactly true and it was merely something muggle doctors told their patient's families to make them feel better? It got Draco's boss off his back and allowed him to resume his daily chats with Granger in peace. It seemed like such a harmless lie at the time, but now it was coming back to bite him.

"It was only a theory, sir. There's not one shred of evidence to prove my talking to Ms. Granger made any difference whatsoever."

"Says you," Smethwyck insisted. "It's all in how you spin it! As far as the public has to know, your use of an experimental treatment resulted in the miraculous recovery of a terminally ill patient."

Draco was nearing his breaking point.

"Sir, am I still the head of my ward?"

"Well, yes of course you are, but-"

"Then Ms. Granger is my patient and the decision is mine. No one sees her without my permission, especially not a whole room full of reporters. I will not subject her to that kind of scrutiny. She's not ready."

"But she wouldn't have to say anything. She could simply stand there and smile, maybe give them a little wave…" Smethwyck suggested.

"Sir, I don't even know if Ms. Granger can walk yet. Last night she could barely hold herself up without assistance, and when she became over excited she had a seizure, which you would know if you had bothered to read the report."

"Of course I read it! I just thought that perhaps there might be some potion that could… calm things down a bit."

"No, sir. There is no potion or spell to treat her present condition. I expect her muscles will have atrophied. It will take months of physical therapy for her to get her strength back," Draco explained, "and that's not taking into account the psychological ramifications."

"Psycho what now?"

Draco sighed. He was one of only a few healers at St. Mungo's who had bothered to study complimentary medicine. It certainly wasn't a part of the standard healer-training curriculum. Draco had to go out of his way to research muggle methods on his own time, often against the expressed wishes of the qualified healers supervising his education. He had even taken time away from his training program to attend a few terms at a muggle medical school. With that knowledge, he often had difficulty hiding his frustration with his superior's ignorance.

"The bottom line is that Ms. Granger is too weak to be seen by anyone except close friends or family. As we've never been able to locate her family, I took the liberty of informing Potter last night."

"Excellent! So Harry Potter will be at the press conference, then?"

"He and Weasley, both," Draco replied.

"Well that's a start, I suppose. But it really would be something to have the Golden Trio reunited right here in St. Mungo's. What if we levitated her? Or wheeled her out in one those rolling muggle chairs you ordered?" Smethwyck asked, hope and determination far outweighing any concern he might have for the patient.

"For the last time, the answer is-"

"I need you work with me, Draco," Chief Smethwyck interrupted, albeit in a fatherly tone. "Your dedication to your patients is admirable. It really is. But the kind of treatments you want to provide cost galleons, and it's my job to make sure St. Mungo's see its share of those galleons. I think allowing select members of the press to see Ms. Granger wide awake – even from her hospital bed – could go a long way to help us toward that end. You understand, don't you?"

"I'm sorry sir, but there's nothing you can say that's going to change my mind. If you'll excuse me, I have to go check on my patient now." Draco said, rising from his chair.

"Fine," Smethwyck snapped, all traces of his earlier affability and enthusiasm gone. "You are dismissed, Healer Malfoy. I'll see you at the press conference."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir," Draco replied, too tersely to be considered respectful, and burst through the office door, letting it slam shut behind him.

oooOOOooo

His temper cooled by the time he reached the fifth floor, where he found a thoroughly exhausted Trainee Michaels fast asleep in a rickety old wooden chair positioned directly in front of Hermione's door.

"She passed out about an hour ago," said a voice behind him. "I didn't have the heart to wake her, the poor dear. I think it was her first night shift."

"Not bad," Draco mused, turning to face the kindly Mediwitch Thompson. "On my first graveyard they found me dead asleep in a broom cupboard by two-thirty."

"Oh, I know. I was there, remember?" the elder witch responded with a smile.

"How's Ms. Granger?" Draco asked.

"I was just coming to check on her again. She was still asleep when I last checked about twenty minutes ago. Vitals are strong."

"Good. Any trouble last night?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. The vultures didn't start circling until around five o'clock this morning."

"Took them long enough," Draco scoffed.

"Well, we were lucky she woke up after visiting hours were over," Mediwitch Thompson replied. "Or it could have been much worse."

"Yes, I suppose it was only a matter of time before some well-meaning member of the staff told his wife who told her sister who told her husband who happens to be friends with a reporter at _Witch Weekly_ … You know how these things go."

"I do indeed," she said. "Well, what should we do with our young charge here?" she asked, gesturing to the sleeping witch before them.

"Michaels," he said softly.

She shifted in her chair, but didn't wake.

"Michaels," he repeated, jostling her shoulder until she sprang into consciousness.

"Wh- what? Oh my goodness! I must have fallen asleep. I'm so sorry, sir! Is everything alright?" Isadora Michaels asked, jumping to her feet.

"Calm down, Michaels. Everything's fine. You did very well. Louise tells me this was your first night shift?"

"Yes sir," the younger witch replied, colouring with embarrassment.

"Well I can tell you from experience that this was one for the history books. Most graveyard shifts are spent administering Pepper-Up potion to drunks."

"That's what Mediwitch Thompson said," Michaels replied, her shy smile creeping back onto her face.

"Go home, Michaels. You look positively knackered."

"Oh, I'm fine now, sir," she said with such enthusiasm that Draco couldn't help returning her smile. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Yes. You can go home and get some proper rest. You're no good to me tired."

"Yes sir," she replied, somewhat crestfallen.

"Come along, dear," Mediwitch Thompson bade, wrapping a motherly arm around her shoulders, "it's been a long night for all of us." Turning to Draco she added, "Good luck with the vultures."

"Thanks," Draco replied, watching the older witch lead the reluctant trainee down the corridor. He was struck with a sudden idea.

"Michaels!" Draco called after her, stopping her in her tracks. "Whose service are you on this week?"

"I'm scheduled to work with Healer Pye down in Creature-Induced Injuries."

"I want you with me on this case. Tell Gus he'll have to find someone else to help him stitch up dog bites for a while, okay?"

"Okay! I will! I mean…thank you, sir," Michaels stammered, before flashing him a brilliant grin and disappearing around the corner.

Gus wasn't going to be happy about this. Poaching a trainee from another healer's service was akin to a cardinal sin, but Draco knew how rare it was to have an attentive apprentice working by his side. Most of the recent Hogwarts grads enrolled in the training program were lazy, useless tits for whom Draco had little time and less patience. Michaels seemed different. She was a little high-strung perhaps, with an obvious eagerness to please, but she wasn't totally brainless. And Draco suspected that what she lacked in confidence, she would more than make up for in enthusiasm and unquestioning obedience, which is exactly what he needed.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to Aidenk77 for being a great beta! And thanks to everyone who reviewed/faved/alerted/etc. I'm going to try to keep to my chapter-a-week, every Friday publishing schedule, but I'm not making any promises. I am a notoriously slow writer, but that's only because I want each chapter to be perfect. Hope you are enjoying the story!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After relieving the two witches from the night shift and ensuring the security wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were stationed at either end of the ward – a measure even Chief Smethwyck couldn't refuse as Potter insisted the Ministry would bear the expense – Draco was finally able to look in on Hermione. Initially afraid of what he might find, he was pleased to see she was sleeping peacefully, in much the same condition as he'd left her the previous evening.

Intending to resume his daily ritual of eating his breakfast and reading the newspaper in the quiet sanctuary of her room, he laid out his bacon sandwich and a steaming cup of tea, unfurling his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ only to see Hermione's seventeen-year-old face smiling up at him from the front cover under the headline:

SHE'S AWAKE! – HERMIONE GRANGER'S MIRACULOUS RECOVERY!

The entire paper seemed to be dedicated to news of Hermione's reported recovery; it was rife with speculation about how her healers had managed it. Though he didn't read it thoroughly, Draco was relieved his name hadn't been mentioned yet. He knew that would change soon enough.

Pushing the paper aside, Draco tucked into his breakfast. He nearly choked when he looked down at the present-day Hermione Granger and saw her staring back.

He coughed and spluttered, jumping up from his seat and hastily clearing away his uneaten breakfast. He felt suddenly nervous, as though he had been caught doing something shameful in public. Mentally chiding himself, he quickly pulled himself together, slipping behind a façade of cool impassivity, and resumed the manner of a professional healer.

"Er…good morning, Ms. Granger. How are you feeling today?"

There was no response. She just stared blankly up at him as though he hadn't spoken.

"Ms. Granger?" he tried again. "Can you hear me?"

His inquiry was met with more stony silence. Moving from his place at the foot of the bed, Draco slowly edged around the corner, closing the distance between them so he could be in a better position to restrain her if she started seizing again.

Her eyes did not follow his movements. She didn't move a muscle. She merely stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Draco didn't like this at all.

His hands hovering a few inches above her motionless form, Draco felt around in search of any abnormalities in her magical aura. It felt a little…off, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly how. He decided that would have to be a mystery for another day, as her physical wellbeing was his primary concern at the moment.

He took out his wand and performed a few basic spells to make sure her vitals were still stable. He was comforted, and more than a little bit surprised to find that everything seemed to be in order. Though he wanted to perform a few muggle tests as well to make absolutely certain.

"Hermione?" he continued in the same soothing tone one might use to calm a frightened animal. "I know you've suffered quite a shock, but you're going to be all right. I'm going to check your pulse now, okay?"

He took her continued silence for consent, reaching out to grasp one of her pale hands and raising it a few inches off the bed. She made no move to stop him, nor did she give any sign of noticing his presence at all. She seemed so very fragile, like she was made of porcelain and liable to crack at the slightest touch.

With deliberate care, Draco wrapped his long fingers around her tiny wrist. He held his breath while he counted her heart beats. The feel of her strong, steady pulse beneath his fingers was much more reassuring than anything his wand could tell him.

"Your pulse is strong. That's a very good sign," he went on, addressing the still seemingly uncomprehending Hermione in the hope that somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, she might be able to hear him.

Her hand was cold, but not alarmingly so. Nevertheless, he wanted to check her temperature. Bending over her prone figure, her small hand still resting in his, Draco gently pressed his lips to her forehead, much the way a parent would do for a sick child. She didn't even blink. Again, her skin was cool and dry. There was no indication of fever.

Satisfied for the moment, he released her hand, laying it gently back onto the bed, when he heard someone cough from the vicinity of the door.

"Uh…Draco? What are you doing?"

Draco hastily moved away from Hermione's bed and turned to see Augustus Pye standing in the open doorway, his hulking frame blocking any view of the corridor beyond; a bemused grin on his face.

"Examining my patient," Draco said with as much dignity as he could muster, though he could feel a hot flush creeping up his neck.

He couldn't say why he'd done it. Such an intimate gesture would be unthinkable for any sane healer when dealing with a patient. Even muggle doctors use a thermometer to accurately measure a patient's temperature. He knew that.

Despite his mortification, Draco was grateful that if anyone had to witness his momentary lapse in judgment, it was Augustus Pye. Though he was nearly ten years Draco's senior, Augustus 'Gus' Pye was an exemplary healer and an affable colleague, not to mention Draco's closest friend.

"Checking her for fleas then, were you?" Gus teased, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

"Tosser," Draco shot back. "Besides, isn't that more your department?"

"I'm going to choose to ignore your blatant attempts to disparage my ward, as there is a lady present and I would hate to have to kick your arse in front of your patient. You'll have to forgive my colleague's manner, Ms. Granger," Gus said, bowing in Hermione's direction. "He's always been an arrogant little berk, as I'm sure you'll remember from your school days."

"Your magnanimity knows no bounds," Draco said dryly, "but I doubt Ms. Granger would give a rat's fart what anyone does at the moment."

It was then Gus noticed Hermione's motionless form and sightless gaze.

"Holy Mother of Merlin," he swore as he rushed to the other side of Hermione's bed. "Smethwyck said she was up and about…talking and everything. What happened to her?" Gus looked questioningly at Draco.

"I suspect she's in shock," Draco said simply.

"This may be a problem," said Gus.

"You think?" Draco replied, irritation creeping into his tone.

"I mean it's going to be a problem for you. Now. Potter and Weasley are waiting just outside the door. That's why I came up here. Well, that, and to tell you off for taking the most promising trainee in her class off my service. I'm stuck with Quimby now, thank you very much."

"Shit," Draco cursed.

"I know!" Gus said. "Quimby is the worst!"

"Jesus, Gus! Focus! I need you to stall them. They can't see her like this. Not before the press conference. Besides, I don't have time to heal it if Potter breaks my nose again," he added, absently running a hand over his recently healed nose.

"No can do. You know I'm crap at lying," Gus said earnestly. "Did Potter really break your nose?" he added with a snort.

"Leave it out, will you? I'll deal with Potter. You stay with Hermione and send for me if anything changes. If she so much as twitches her little finger I want to know about it."

"Sorry, mate. I just came off an all-nighter. Penny will flay me alive if I pull another unpaid double during the wage freeze."

"Fuck the wage freeze. Come on, Gus. I only need you for an hour or so. I'll owe you," Draco said, unable to keep the pleading from his voice.

"You'll owe me twice," Gus said, relenting. Then added, "For a start, I want Michaels back."

"No way. I need her. I wouldn't trust any of the other trainees within a mile of this room."

"Fine, then I get two future trades plus another favor payable at the time and place of my choosing."

"Deal," Draco agreed without hesitation.

"Run along then," said Gus. "I'd like to see for myself just how badly you've bollocksed things up for our lovely Ms. Granger here."

"Yeah, thanks," Draco said, but Gus already had his back to him, thoroughly engrossed in his own examination of Hermione.

Draco chanced one last glance at her expressionless face before stepping out into the hall.

oooOOOooo

"What do you mean we can't see her?" Weasley's voice boomed through the corridor. "I thought you said she was going to wake up!"

"She did wake up. As I've already told you, several times, Ms. Granger is with one of her other healers undergoing several routine but necessary tests. You'll be able to see her after the press conference. And for the love of Merlin, keep your voice down. We're in a hospital, Weasley, not The Leaky Cauldron."

Draco shouldn't have indulged in the jibe. He knew he'd pay for it later when they saw Hermione's current state first hand, but he was too exhausted to put up with the likes of the Ronald the Wonder Weasel at the moment.

"So Hermione won't be at the press conference?" Potter asked.

"No," Draco said flatly. "I told you last night. She experienced a considerable amount emotional distress upon waking. She's not ready to be under that kind of scrutiny."

"Of course," Potter conceded, "but surely she wants to see us…"

It wasn't exactly a question, but he was obviously uncertain. Draco took a savage pleasure in his discomfort. If it weren't for the bloody press conference he would've gladly let them in to see her, if only to witness the meltdown that was sure to follow, but Draco needed them. He knew all too well that Potter had never been able to control his emotions, as evidenced by Draco's recently healed nose, and Weasley was always a loose canon.

"Look, I don't know what your expecting to find, Potter, but the woman behind that door isn't the same Hermione you remember. I know it's asking a lot, but I need you to trust my judgment on this one. You really don't want to see her before facing a room full of reporters."

"If you say so," Potter conceded. "Where is this press conference anyway?"

He said the words 'press conference' with such disdain Draco felt a moment's commiseration with his former nemesis. Potter seemed to hate being in the news almost as much as he did.

"The conference room on the first level," Draco supplied. "We should probably get going. Chief Smethwyck will want to start on time."

"Lead the way," Potter said, resigned.

He led them away from Hermione's room, toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. The security wizards parted to let them through, nodding to them as they passed. Potter stopped to speak with them, imparting upon them the severity of their mission and the unpleasantness that would follow if anything should happen to Hermione in his absence.

Draco was grudgingly impressed. The two security wizards, though considerably older than Potter, seemed perfectly willing to take orders from him. It wasn't terribly surprising, as Potter was an auror and technically outranked them, but nonetheless, Draco suspected Potter had earned his place and wasn't simply trading on his famous name. Even if he didn't like him, Draco could respect him for that.

Weasley, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. He had been eying Draco strangely for the last several minutes. Assessing him, as if he'd never really seen him before.

"That's twice now," the balding redhead mused.

"What are you on about?" Draco asked.

"You've said her name twice. Since when did you start calling her Hermione?" he asked, displaying an uncharacteristic perspicacity that was most unwelcome to Draco.

"Shut it, Weasel. Let's go."

And the three unlikely allies, temporarily united against a common enemy, proceeded down the stairs to face the throng of reporters from every publication and wireless network in the wizarding world.

* * *

A/N: Thank you Aidenk77 for the fab beta work. And thanks to everyone who reviewed/altered/faved/etc. I appreciate the support.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Shortly after nine o'clock, Draco was standing behind the makeshift dais at the far end of the conference room. Chief Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck, looking far too pleased for Draco's liking, was standing beside him. The elder wizard's confident smile made Draco uneasy.

The huge, oval table, which usually resided in the centre of the room, had been replaced with row upon row of mismatched chairs borrowed from every corner of the hospital - from the visitor's tearoom to the staff lounge. Draco wondered why anyone had bothered to provide them with seating at all. No one was sitting, and apart from the few witches and wizards at the back who were standing on theirs, the chairs seemed to be cluttering the already cramped space and generally getting in everyone's way.

The room was fit to bursting with scores of reporters and photographers whose cameras belched great puffs of green smoke whenever they snapped a picture. Between the press of bodies and the cloying smell of the camera smoke, Draco was beginning to feel ill. Or perhaps the rubbish being spewed from the podium was the source of his nausea.

Potter and Weasley, flanked by their wives, were standing side by side at the podium, fielding questions from the insatiable reporters. The press was obviously still enamored of their chosen heroes, as evidenced by the mawkish, softball questions they were lobbing at them.

 _How did you feel when you got the news? Did you ever think this day would come? Is this the miracle you've all been hoping for?_

As expected, Potter was doing the lion's share of the talking. His statement, though brief, was equally full of trite sentimentality about their answered prayers, collective gratefulness, and unwavering belief in Hermione's strength. Draco thought it sounded like a lot of bullshit and had consequently tuned most of it out.

However, his interest was piqued when a reporter from _Witch Weekly_ asked about Hermione's reaction to their reunion and Potter was forced to confess that they hadn't actually seen her yet. There followed a deluge of questions from reporters demanding to know why not. To Potter's credit, he only hesitated for a moment before answering.

"We are, of course, very anxious to see Hermione, but we all want what's best for her and will therefore defer to Healer Malfoy's judgment when it comes to her health and medical care."

With that, the Potters and Weasleys stepped down off the dais and returned to their seats. Smethwyck glared pointedly at Draco. That appeared to be his cue.

Draco made his way to the podium amidst a renewed cloud of green smoke emitting from a dozen cameras, all aimed in his direction. The excitement in the room increased exponentially with his every step. When he reached the podium, he shuffled a few of the blank pages he carried as if examining Hermione's file, but he didn't need notes. He knew exactly what he was, or more precisely, what he wasn't going to say.

"Good morning," Draco said in a matter-of-fact, almost bored tone. "I'll start by reading a prepared statement."

If Potter's brief speech left the press wanting more, then Draco's must have been wildly disappointing. It was barely three sentences and contained nothing but the driest medical jargon. He could practically feel Smethwyck seething behind him.

"I'll take a few questions now," said Draco.

He never promised to answer them though.

"Healer Malfoy! Healer Malfoy!"

The hoard of reporters shouted for his attention as they jockeyed for position, their Quick Quotes quills scribbling madly in midair. Draco surveyed them with ill-disguised contempt. Opting to get the worst of it over with at the start, and because Potter had pointedly ignored her throughout the entirety of his interview, Draco called on Rita Skeeter first.

"Rita Skeeter, senior reporter for _The Daily Prophet_ ," she announced, quite unnecessarily, for she had become almost as notorious as the subjects of her column. "Why is Ms. Granger not here to address us in person? Is she unwell?"

"As I mentioned in my statement, Ms. Granger is awake and her vitals are stable, but as her primary healer, I deemed it best for her to avoid any stressful activities which might jeopardize her health. Next question."

"I have a follow up query," Rita added with an ingratiating smile.

Of course she did. Draco should have known better than to hope he'd get off so easily.

"By all means, Miss Skeeter," Draco said, trying to keep his temper under control.

"Apart from Ms. Granger's physical condition, which you've already addressed in such stunning detail," Rita said with obvious sarcasm, "what can you tell us about her mood? Was she in good spirits when you last saw her?"

"I'm not a trained psychologist, so I can't speak to Ms. Granger's mood at present. Next-"

"Healer Malfoy, please," Rita interrupted, her voice dripping with disdain.

"As I'm sure you can imagine," Draco began in clipped tones, "Ms. Granger has suffered a tremendous shock in the last twelve hours and would prefer to process her emotions in her own time. My patient appreciates your willingness to respect her privacy at this crucial time in her recovery."

He smiled coldly at Rita and she seemed, at least for the moment, mollified.

"With that understanding, are there any further questions?"

And there were. Dozens of them. When would Hermione be available for comment? What was her first word upon waking? Who's been allowed in to see her? Has her family been notified? What did she have for her first meal in twelve years? When would she be released from the hospital? They wanted to know everything from the size of her room to the color of her hospital robes.

Draco gave them short, often one-word answers to a majority of their questions, and outright ignored the most inane ones. Mostly he relied on the staid, and wonderfully satisfying phrase: "I cannot speak to that matter at this time."

He was feeling quite pleased with himself. He thought the interview portion was going rather well. While he wasn't answering all of their questions, he was cooperating to the best of his ability. Smethwyck couldn't fault him for sticking to the letter of the law when a patient's privacy was involved. He allowed himself a small smile. He certainly wasn't enjoying himself - not by any means – but he had, so far managed to endure nearly fifteen minutes of this ludicrous exercise, and it appeared he would emerge from it relatively unscathed.

"I believe we have time for one more question…"

Every hand in the room not holding a camera was waving wildly in the air. Reporters were practically climbing over one another to get to the front of the mob. It was complete bedlam.

"You there," Draco said, pointing at a grey-haired woman. "The witch at the back, in the orange cardigan." She was one of the few who didn't appear to be frothing at the mouth. She was merely standing there, as calmly as you please, with one arm raised slightly above her head, an old-fashioned ink quill poised in her hand.

A Slytherin always rewarded patience.

"Amalfia Michaels, _The Practical Potioneer_."

The surname brought him up short. _Michaels_? No. She couldn't have been the one to leak information about Hermione's condition to the press, even if she was a member of her family. Surely such a promising trainee would have known better than to divulge a patient's confidential medical information. That sort of behavior was in violation of healer protocol and grounds for immediate expulsion from St. Mungo's.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that. Could you repeat the question, please?" Draco asked, thoroughly distracted.

"Were there any potions administered to Ms. Granger which may have contributed to her recovery?"

The question seemed harmless enough.

"While I can't elaborate on a patient's specific treatment plan, I can say in this instance no potions were regularly administered to Ms. Granger since she has been in my care," Draco finished. He was desperate to get out there, but it seemed Amalfia Michaels wasn't finished with him yet.

"If you please, I have a follow up question," she pressed. "Will you provide us with the specific details of your ground-breaking muggle technique which resulted in Ms. Granger's miraculous recovery?"

There it was. The question he'd been dreading all morning. Not to mention it was irrefutable proof that she'd acquired inside information, which had, in all likelihood, come from Isadora. Draco would take no pleasure in sacking her, but it seemed he'd have no choice now.

"Er…sorry to disappoint you, but there was no miracle cure, muggle or otherwise. As I mentioned in my statement, Ms. Granger spontaneously awoke from a…"

"What about spells?" another witch asked, cutting him off before he could regurgitate the whole of his statement for a second time.

"Or charms?" shouted a wizard somewhere off to Draco's left.

"Yeah, tell us more about this miraculous cure!" yelled another.

Draco was losing control of the room. He needed to get out of there.

"Thank you all very much. I'm afraid that's all we have time for today," Draco called out over the mob, but if anyone could hear him that would be the miracle.

People were shouting questions at him from every direction. Some were just plain shouting at him. Venting their frustration at his refusal to provide any detailed information.

Smethwyck made his lumbering way onto the dais and over to the podium. He pushed Draco aside and bellowed at the agitated crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please! You must forgive our young Mr. Malfoy here. He's far too modest," Smethwyck said, throwing an enormous arm around Draco's shoulders and crushing him roughly to his side. "Perhaps too modest for his own good," he added so softly only Draco could hear. "What I'm sure he _meant_ to say is that while there was no miracle, per se, Healer Malfoy did successfully employ several time-honored muggle healing techniques which resulted in the _statistically improbable_ recovery of an otherwise terminally ill patient."

Draco's nausea had returned in full force.

"Draco, why don't you show the Potters and the Weasleys to Miss Granger's room while I finish up here? I'll join you shortly."

His tone brooked no argument and Draco knew when to admit defeat.

The crowd was still clambering for more. Smethwyck ushered Draco off the dais and immediately returned his attention to the mass of hungry reporters, spinning his words into tomorrow's headlines. Blatant falsehoods though they were, he had to admit; it made for an excellent story.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks again to Aidenk77 for being an awesome beta and a great friend. And a big thank you to everyone who has shown this fic some love. A few of you have expressed a desire for longer chapters, but the short chapters were actually a deliberate decision on my part. As I am a painfully slow writer, I can do regular updates or longer chapters, but not both. So I went with short, regular updates. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"What the hell were you thinking? A patient – a world famous patient - miraculously wakes from a twelve-year coma and you put her back to sleep!? How could you attempt such a dangerous procedure on an already fragile patient? Especially when said patient is a personal friend of Harry Potter! He could order an inquiry from the Ministry! He could bloody well have us both killed if he had a mind to!"

Smethwyck was yelling. Loudly. And since he hadn't cast a muffliato charm on Draco's office door beforehand, the whole of the Spell Damage Ward was able to hear him.

As Draco expected, the reunion of the Golden Trio had not gone at all well. For half a heartbeat he thought the voices of her friends might rouse Hermione from her state of waking sleep, but no. She remained resolutely still, but for the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her wide, staring eyes remained frozen and expressionless.

After their initial joy at seeing Hermione at least partially awake had worn off, an air of confused anger settled over the Potter-Weasley clan, and they spent the better part of an hour badgering Draco with questions and generally venting their frustration upon him. No one seemed quite sure what to make of Hermione's current state, but all parties were in agreement that whatever had happened to her, it was one hundred percent Draco's fault.

"Sir, I followed hospital protocol to the letter. My patient was in danger and needed to be sedated. She was in no condition to swallow a potion, so I used an injection – a muggle procedure involving a syringe. It was the quickest and most effective way to stop the seizure. Perhaps you would've preferred me to use a stunning spell?"

Draco did not appreciate being scolded like an errant schoolboy, particularly in his own office.

"Don't get smart with me, Draco," Smethwyck warned.

"I'd be happy to extract my memories from last evening if you'd like to judge for yourself."

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely! Let me just pull out my pocket pensieve," Smethwyck scoffed. "Do be sensible, Draco. I'm no legilimens, and it's not as if we have powerful magical artifacts just lying around the office…"

"I have a pensieve here, sir," said Draco as he bent to retrieve the shallow stone basin from a nearby cabinet. "It belonged to my father."

"You do?" Smethwyck asked, his eyes bulging at the sight of the pensieve. "And you keep it _here_? Your office can hardly be considered a secure enough place to store such an heirloom. That cabinet doesn't even lock!" he added, incredulity momentarily outweighing his anger.

Draco had never really given it much thought. Not because he was so fabulously wealthy that he didn't need to worry about such things – he wasn't. Not anymore anyway. The Ministry had seen to that after the war. He and his mother may have escaped Azkaban, but they had paid dearly in other ways. Draco was almost glad of it. He saw what money and greed had done to his father and the lengths to which he was willing to go in order to maintain his perceived status…and how those choices had ultimately led to his downfall and demise.

"I brought it in years ago, when I was first assigned to Ms. Granger's case. I tried an experimental charm to extract her memories, in the hopes that I could glean some information about the nature of the curse, but it was no use. Her mind was like a blank slate. I couldn't see anything but swirling grey mist."

Draco had also used the pensieve to peruse his own memories, to no avail. Time and time again he searched through recollections of that day, from anyone willing to share their memories with him. Admittedly, he'd had very few volunteers. His mother, Potter, Weasley, Weasley's sister and the Lovegood girl, who had also been dueling with Bellatrix at the time, had all consented to let Draco see their memories, but in the chaos and confusion of the battle, none of them had remembered seeing Lucius, never mind the curse he cast.

Consequently, Draco had long ago resigned himself to the fact that any knowledge regarding Lucius' curse had died with him.

Putting the tip of his wand to his temple, Draco silently cast the incantation to extract his memories from the previous evening, along with a revised version of his memory from his encounter with Hermione that morning. He separated out the bits of his memory he wanted Smethwyck to see, carefully cobbling together a few disparate pieces in order to avoid any appearance of impropriety, and deposited them into the basin, where they swirled and floated, a combination of liquid and gas. It was not a pleasant feeling, sifting through one's memories, but it was a relief to be temporarily free of them; to view them objectively from the confines of the pensieve where there were no emotions tied to the thoughts.

"Are you ready, sir?"

Smethwyck nodded and bent over the pensieve, positioning his round, ruddy face over the basin until his bulbous nose broke the surface of Draco's memories. Draco elected not to join him. If he needed to peruse his memories, he would do so on his own time, and without his boss breathing down his neck.

He thought Smethwyck looked rather ridiculous standing there with his face buried in the basin and his arse in the air, like a drunk who had passed out in the middle of his morning wash. Draco was tempted to curse him right in his oversized bottom, but decided against it. The hospital chief was difficult enough on a good day, and akin to a thundering rhinoceros when his ire was roused.

Smethwyck emerged a quarter of an hour later, looking distraught.

"Well…this changes things. I see now your hands were tied, Healer Malfoy."

Draco didn't fail to notice the elder wizard's use of his official title. Though he never truly feared for his job, he was relieved to have regained the respect of his superior, even if he didn't particularly like the man.

"What about Trainee Michaels? Have you seen her memories yet?"

Draco could've kicked himself. He hadn't thought to ask for her memories before sending her home. He confessed as much to Smethwyck.

"Well, where is she?" Smethwyck demanded, drumming his fingers on Draco's desk in impatience.

"She worked all night so I sent her home."

"No matter. Get her in here. I want to see that memory."

Draco wanted to see it, too. He also needed to have a word with Michaels about the matter of a certain reporter and the suspicious nature of her questions.

"Yes, sir."

"I've got to go see if I can smooth things over with Potter," Smethwyck said.

"Sir, Ms. Granger is my patient and my responsibility. If anyone is going to deal with Potter, it should be me," he said, with an air of grim determination. "Besides, we have history."

"That's right…old school chums, weren't you?" he asked, brightening a bit.

"That's one way of putting it."

"Very well, you can join me in Ms. Granger's room as soon as you've contacted Michaels and retrieved that memory."

Draco nodded to his superior and grudgingly accepted the dismissal from his own office. It was galling, but necessary. If he wanted to stay on as Hermione's primary healer, then he needed to play along and stay in Smethwyck's good books. He'd show him Michaels' memory all right, but only after he saw it first.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again Aidenk77 - you're the best. Also, thank you to whoever posted my fic on tumblr! It resulted in a lovely uptick of hits/reviews/etc. I've never used the site myself - I'm either too much of a hipster or not enough of one to understand how tumblr works - but if that's what the kids are into these days, then I'm grateful!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It took several attempts to rouse Trainee Michaels, but after a fair bit of undignified yelling into her fireplace, Draco eventually got a hold of her; making it clear in no uncertain terms that she was to return to the hospital with all possible haste. When he revealed the reason she was being recalled to work, the young witch had gone from bleary-eyed to terrified quicker than you could say, 'apparate.' And he hadn't even mentioned the incident at the press conference. She was to report to his office and wait for him there. He was not looking forward to their meeting.

Trying in vain not to let his exhaustion get the better of him, Draco made his way back upstairs toward the Permanent Spell Damage Ward. He heard familiar voices shouting and wondered idly if the whole hospital was going to hear him get yelled at today. Some department head he was turning out to be.

"What kind of hospital allows their healers to run amok, performing dangerous muggle… _thingies_ on people?" Weasley shouted, sounding like even more of an idiot than usual.

"Ron!" a female voice shouted back. "Get back in here and let Harry handle it."

Draco guessed the second voice belonged to the younger Weasley, Potter's wife. He could never remember her name. There followed some terse muttering and the sound of a door slamming shut. Draco thought darkly, if that didn't wake Hermione up, nothing would.

He cautiously approached the small group of wizards standing outside Hermione's door. Smethwyck and Gus had their backs to him, so Potter was the only one who noticed Draco's presence.

"I want him off Hermione's case," Potter demanded. "He's obviously incompetent," he added, glaring at the blond wizard as though daring Draco to contradict him.

"That's unfair, Mr. Potter," Gus replied. "Healer Malfoy is one of the most talented, dedicated healers I've ever known," he finished.

Draco felt a surge of affection for his friend that momentarily eclipsed his irritation with Potter. Before he could formulate a counterattack of his own, Smethwyck spoke up.

"Believe me, I understand how very upsetting this must be for you and your family," Smethwyck conciliated, "but I've had a look at Healer Malfoy's memories of the incident and it appears as though he saved Ms. Granger's life."

"You saw a memory of Hermione when she was awake?" Potter asked.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. It was…well it was rather…disturbing," Smethwyck answered tentatively.

"I want to see for myself."

"Mr. Potter, I would seriously advise against it," Smethwyck began.

"I'll have the Minister of Magic order it himself if I have to," Potter threatened. He looked rather uncomfortable throwing his weight around, but he was clearly resolved. Even from behind, Draco could see Smethwyck's normally ruddy face was tinged with green.

"No need for the theatrics, Potter," Draco said, startling Smethwyck and Gus, "I have a pensieve in my office. If you'd care to follow me…"

Much to Draco's surprise, he did. With a pointed look at Gus and Smethwyck, Draco made it clear he wanted to handle Potter on his own. Mercifully, the two older healers seemed to get the message, opting to stay behind in order to check on Hermione and the rest of her visitors. Neither Draco nor Harry deigned to speak during the short walk to Draco's office. The silence was anything but companionable.

When he showed Potter into the office, Draco was instantly met with an anxious-looking Isadora Michaels. He hadn't expected to see her so soon.

"Healer Malfoy! Here's the memory you wanted, sir," she said, holding up a glass vial full of swirling mist. "I've already decanted it for you. I'm so sorry I didn't think of it last night. I should've given it to you right away or included it with my report, but with one thing and another... Please forgive my momentary lapse in judgment. I swear, it will never happen again."

She said all of this very fast and she was a bit shaky when she pressed the vial of memory into his hands.

"Easy, Michaels. Slow down. How much caffeine have you had this morning?" Draco asked, accepting the vial from her.

"Quite a lot, sir," she replied with a nervous smile.

"I see. Thank you for this," he said, gesturing to the vial. "Kindly wait outside while I speak with Mr. Potter. I'll call you when you're needed again."

"Yes, sir," Michaels said as she turned to go.

"Hold up a minute," Harry called after her. "Are you the healer who was with Hermione when she woke up?"

"Yes, sir," Michaels replied, dutifully.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see that memory, too."

Draco was beginning to regret asking her to meet him in here. He had hoped to view her memory on his own.

"Michaels, your memories are your business. You don't even have to show them to me if you don't want to," Draco said, hoping she would get the hint.

Predictably, she did not.

"Oh, I don't mind, sir. Anything I can do to help!"

"Thank you, Michaels," Draco sighed, showing her the door. "There's another matter we need to discuss. Please wait outside and I'll be with you shortly."

"Of course, sir," she replied and left the office, closing the door behind her.

"Well, Potter, shall we dive in?"

Harry nodded his consent and approached the pensieve. Draco poured Trainee Michaels' memory in first, and both wizards lowered their faces into the wide, shallow basin.

They were dropped into the same hallway they'd just left, directly outside of Hermione's room. Dressed in a crisp set of green trainee's robes, Isadora Michaels came bustling around the corner carrying a stack of fresh bed linens. When she entered the small room, the two wizards followed mutely behind her.

Draco felt a moment's irritation at the sight of her carrying the sheets, as he typically saw to all of Hermione's care personally. Of course, it was unheard of for a fully trained healer, never mind a department head, to perform the mundane duties of a trainee, but such trivial distinctions were of no consequence to him, at least not where Hermione was concerned. Though he did wonder how many times her linens had been changed redundantly.

"Good evening, Ms. Granger," the memory Michaels said cheerfully as she approached the bed and turned down the covers revealing the small, frail looking witch beneath. "Let's change those sheets then, shall we?"

Michaels pointed her wand at Hermione and cast a silent levitation spell, gently floating the comatose witch a few feet above the bed. With another silent incantation she stripped the bed and vanished the dirty linens to the laundry. A third flick of her wand caused the clean linens to leap out of her arms and start spreading themselves out on the bed and encasing the pillows.

Draco was surprised when, rather than using magic to finish the job, Trainee Michaels placed her wand on the bed and began manually tucking in the corners and smoothing the sheets, just as he always did – though in Draco's case it was because his knowledge of household charms was severely limited. Michaels seemed to have a better grasp on cleaning charms, yet she reverted to the muggle method anyway. She had clearly been paying closer attention to Draco's ministrations than he'd first thought.

"I'm sorry I've not come to see you sooner, but it's been an unusually busy day and I had several er…" she paused as if choosing her words carefully, "… _livelier_ patients to tend to," she finished as she as she lifted the mattress and folded down another corner. She seemed to regret her choice of words almost immediately and hastily added, "Not that you're not lively, Ms. Granger! Of course you are! You are very much alive and not at all forgotten. Never forgot-"

Her monologue was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream, which sent Michaels reeling backward away from the bed. Draco heard Potter's sharp intake of breath as they were forced to stand by and watch helplessly while the levitation spell was broken and Hermione fell, first bouncing onto the freshly made bed, then tumbling, boneless to the floor. Michaels' wand rolled off the bed after her.

Her screaming gave way to panting as she struggled to push herself up, but her arms weren't strong enough to hold her and she collapsed back down onto the cold, hard floor. She tried again, her quavering limbs lifting her for the briefest moment, just long enough to crane her neck and get a glimpse of her surroundings before flopping onto the floor once more.

Gritting her teeth and emitting a guttural sound from the back of her throat, she made a third attempt. Her movements were tight, rigid, and obviously painful, but this time she managed to get hold of one of the nearby curtains and, with a colossal effort, she pulled herself up. But the curtain rod couldn't support her weight any more than her trembling arms could, and the whole apparatus fell down around her, burying her head in yellow fabric. She cried out in a combination of surprise, pain and fear before dissolving into frustrated sobs.

After the initial shock of Hermione's sudden and violent return to consciousness had worn off, Trainee Michaels cautiously approached Hermione's prone form.

"Oh, Ms. Granger! I'm so sorry! Here, let me…" Michaels started, but when she began to remove the curtains from her patient's head Hermione yelped and flinched, sending the panicked trainee scurrying back several paces.

"I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?" Michaels asked, clearly frightened.

Hermione's answering cries were as unintelligible as they were terrifying. But her meaning was abundantly clear: stay the hell away from me if you know what's good for you. Although Draco was only experiencing a pale imitation of the real episode, the sound still made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

With a determination he didn't know she possessed, he looked on awe-struck as Hermione managed to wedge her arms underneath her chest and push herself up with all her might, forcing her reluctant torso to lift a few inches off the floor. She was finally able to raise her head high enough to get a proper look around the room. Every muscle of her small frame was tensed and straining from the exertion. Her eyes were alert and wild with fear.

That's when she spotted Michaels' wand lying only a few feet to her left. Her arms gave way and her body buckled as she scrabbled for the fallen wand. When her fingers brushed the thin piece of polished mahogany a look of relief passed over her face. With a final grunting effort she reached for the wand, clutching it desperately in her trembling hand, and began firing all manner of curses in Michaels' general direction, forcing the younger witch to flee.

The memory faded as Michaels ran from the room.

"Jesus," Potter whispered when they emerged from the pensieve.

"Yeah," Draco replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

A long moment of silence followed. Both men were lost in their own thoughts. Though the entire episode couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes, it made an enormous impact on the two wizards.

"Well, I suppose we should…"

"Yes, of course," Draco said, pouring his own memories into the basin.

Despite his aversion to revisiting his own recollections, especially with an interloper present, Draco opted to enter the pensieve anyway. He'd be damned if he was going to let Potter traipse through his memories unaccompanied.

They landed back in Hermione's tiny hospital room where she was howling and sobbing on the floor just as they'd left her. Potter's attention was fixed on Hermione, but Draco was focused on Potter. It was disconcerting to view yourself in the third person – almost like watching a muggle television show, minus the screen – and it made Draco uncomfortable.

He watched the bespectacled wizard scrutinize the memory version of Draco as he approached Hermione and levitated her to the bed. He, too, had to suppress a smile when Hermione's mind kicked into high gear as she tried to figure out a solution to her current predicament.

"She recognized you," said Potter.

That brought Draco up short. He'd been wondering about that all night, and though he would never admit it, he was disappointed to think she hadn't known him. After all, it had only been twelve years. His appearance hadn't changed that much. He was perhaps a bit broader than he'd been in school, his hair a bit darker…and thinner. But he was still the same person…

No, he wasn't. Draco was nothing like the frightened boy he'd been at school. Of course, she didn't know that.

Draco turned back to Potter who was listening with rapt attention to the rest of their conversation, hanging on Hermione's every word, especially the part when she asked after the whereabouts of he and Ron.

"Well that was tactfully done," Potter said, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, what would you have me say? 'Weaselbee and Scarhead haven't been to see you in a few years, but I'm sure they'll pop by tomorrow,'" Draco sniped, but Potter merely shushed him and shifted his attention back to Hermione.

The two were quiet throughout the remainder of the exchange. Potter looked visibly shaken by Hermione's reaction to the revelation about the duration of her hospital stay. And he was absolutely horrified by the measures Draco had to take in order to subdue her.

"Her mind…it's still as sharp as ever," Potter marveled as Draco's first memory faded away and the second began to materialize. "I never thought – I mean, I never could've imaged that she… She's still… _her_."

"I confess, I was surprised, myself. No one could have predicted that kind of recovery after such a traumatic brain injury."

When the next memory came into focus Harry moved to Hermione's side so that he and Draco were standing on opposite sides of the bed. Potter made to reach for her hand, but thought better of it when he noticed Draco watching him. Draco stood behind the chair where his memory self was setting out his breakfast and perusing the newspaper.

"What the hell are you doing?" Potter demanded.

"Attempting to eat breakfast. What does it look like?"

"That can't be allowed."

"Shut it, Potter. It was the only quiet place in the whole bloody hospital this morning. Just pay attention, will you?"

But there wasn't much to see after that. By his own design, Draco's memory ended abruptly after his magical examination of Hermione. He wasn't about to let anyone, let alone Potter, see his momentary lapse in professionalism when he inadvertently kissed her forehead. Not if he wanted to keep his job.

"Has that memory been tampered with?" Potter asked as soon as they were back in Draco's office. "Where's the rest of it?"

"I hate to break it to you, but that's all I can legally show you. My colleague, Healer Pye, interrupted my examination and because we discussed another patient's case in addition to Ms. Granger's, I'm afraid confidentiality laws prevent me from divulging the content of our conversation," Draco lied smoothly.

Draco was a practiced liar and was therefore unsurprised by the rapidity and ease with which he concocted that particular story. However, it was still a struggle to prevent the smug smile that threatened to break out across his face as he did so.

"I don't believe you. You're hiding something and I'm going to find out what it is."

"Give me a break, Potter. I don't have time to sit here with you and sift through every little detail of every memory I've ever had. You got what you came for. Now I have other, more important matters to attend to. So if you'll excuse me…" Draco finished, showing him the door.

Potter left, but with an implied, 'I'll be back,' which left Draco in no doubt there would be plenty of unpleasantness to come. In fact, his next unpleasant task was already upon him – the sacking of Isadora Michaels.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to all who have read/reviewed/faved/etc. And of course, thanks to superbeta Aidenk77. You are the jam.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Sit down, Michaels."

The young witch looked extremely nervous. Whether it was a result of her ill advised over-caffeinating or an intuitive guess as to the nature of their conversation Draco didn't know, but her constant fidgeting was fast becoming a source of irritation.

"Was there something wrong with the memory?" she asked tentatively, her hands fiddling with the folds of her robes.

"No, the memory was fine. Very helpful, in fact."

Michaels seemed to take that as an invitation, instantly opening the floodgates from which a torrent of rapid-fire explanations flowed forth.

"I'm so glad it was helpful. And I'm sorry if I failed to follow proper hospital protocol last evening. But really, sir, I didn't know there was a proper protocol for a formerly comatose patient spontaneously waking up and attempting to curse you with your own wand. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I couldn't very well defend myself - not to mention help the patient - without my wand. I realize now it was foolish to place my wand within such easy reach of a patient and I swear I'll never do it again. But honestly, I've seen you do the same at least a dozen times and I don't think I should be sacked for something as trivial as-"

"That's not why I'm sacking you," Draco said, holding up a hand and putting an end to her nervous prattling.

"Wait. You're really going to sack me?"

She seemed honestly surprised.

"Yes, Michaels. I have reason to suspect you divulged confidential medical information about our patient to a member of the press."

She blinked in confusion.

"I hate to see you go, Michaels, but this is a serious offense and I'm afraid you've left me with no choice."

"But…I didn't!" she cried desperately, her eyes brimming with tears. "I never – I haven't spoken to anyone apart from hospital staff since I started my shift last evening."

This brought him up short.

"So you haven't been in contact with a journalist by the name of Amalfia Michaels?"

"Aunt Fi? No, I haven't spoken with her in weeks. How do you know her?" she asked in obvious confusion.

"You didn't mention anything to another member of your family who may have contacted your aunt?"

"No, sir. I told you, I haven't spoken to anyone outside of the hospital since last evening. I apparated to and from work, I live alone, and I haven't corresponded with anyone via owl or floo apart from my conversation with you this morning," she replied earnestly. "I'll drink veritaserum if that's what it takes to convince you."

He didn't know what to make of that. She seemed sincere and Draco knew how to spot a liar. As they say, it takes one to know one.

"Very well. Let's assume for a moment that you didn't make a grievous, career-ending error in disclosing confidential patient information to a journalist. Kindly explain to me how your aunt knew to ask about my 'innovative muggle healing techniques' at the press conference this morning," Draco requested.

"I honestly don't know, sir," Isadora exclaimed, tears still staining her stricken face.

"Does anyone else in your family work for the hospital? Would your aunt have any other potential source of information?"

"Er…not family, no sir…" she started, fidgeting again.

"Michaels. What aren't you telling me?"

"Well, it's just that…you see, Chief Smethwyck is…well, he's um…he's very…it's difficult to…"

"Spit it out, for Merlin's sake!"

Isadora flinched at the barked command, but answered immediately.

"Chief Smethwyck is a very close family friend. He's my godfather, actually. I've known him my entire life. He spends holidays with us. Has Christmas tea at my mum and dad's every year. And he knows my Aunt Amalfia very well…"

"I see."

"Not that I would accuse him of anything! I would never-"

"It's okay, Michaels. Calm down. I need to think for a minute."

Draco could have cursed himself. He should have known. After all, Ms. Michaels' phrasing of the question was almost identical to Smethwyck's wording when they'd been speaking in his office earlier that morning. Unfortunately, there was nothing Draco could do about it now. The damage was done. He'd simply have to deal with the press breathing down his neck for the foreseeable future.

"I'm sorry I never mentioned anything before, sir," Michaels said, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. "I didn't want anyone to think my personal affiliation with Chief Smethwyck was the reason I was accepted into the program. I earned my place here, the same as everyone else," Isadora proclaimed with such an uncharacteristic fierceness that it left Draco in no doubt of her sincerity.

"Of course you did. Any healer with half a brain can see you're the most promising trainee we've got," Draco said with equal sincerity.

"So I'm not being dismissed?" she asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice once more.

"No, Michaels. You most certainly are not. I apologize for my unfounded accusations. I never should have doubted you."

"Thank you, Healer Malfoy. Am I still assigned to your service this week?"

"This week and any other you'd like. To tell the truth, I'd be glad to have you on my service for as long as Ms. Granger is a patient. You have the right sort of mind for this ward."

Though he would never say so aloud, Draco had always believed that with enough patience and creativity 'permanent' spell damage was a relative term. He'd seen enough improvement in patients who had been deemed a loss cause by other healers to know he was making a real difference in his patient's lives. And from what he could tell of Isadora Michaels, she seemed to think that way, too.

"I would be honored to work with you on Ms. Granger's case! I've always been fascinated by muggle medicine. Will you be using other muggle techniques to aid in her recovery? What happened when she woke up this morning? Did she calm down at all? Please tell her there are no hard feelings for trying to curse me. I probably would've done the same thing if I were in her position…"

Draco help up a hand to stop her.

"Michaels, if we're going to work together you're not allowed to drink anything caffeinated ever again. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, somewhat chastened. Though a sheepish grin tugged at her lips.

"Now please, for the love of Merlin, go home and get some sleep…before I change my mind."

The young witch retreated from the office, and Draco indulged in a moment's mediation, his head in hands, wondering what on earth he was going to do if Hermione didn't recover.

oooOOOooo

After what felt like the longest day of his career, Draco finally returned to the room he'd studiously been avoiding all day. The Potters and the Weasleys kept vigil over Hermione's still-living corpse all day, until they were forced to leave when visiting hours were over. Draco didn't want to deal with them anymore than was strictly necessary. Not that he was afraid of the likes of Scarhead or Weaselbee. Far from it. He simply preferred to work in peace and quiet.

Rather than the empty room he was expecting, Draco was surprised to see Gus standing at Hermione's bedside.

"What are you doing in here? I thought you went home this morning," Draco exclaimed, startling his friend.

"I did. I left right after you brought Potter into your office. But I'm on nights all week and my regular shift started half an hour ago. The question is what are _you_ still doing here?"

Draco stared at his watch, dumbfounded. Had it really been twelve hours since his meeting with Potter? That couldn't be right. He noticed Gus was looking at him with concern.

"When's the last time you've eaten, mate? Or slept for that matter. You look positively shattered."

When had he eaten? There was the sandwich he had for breakfast…but no, he never got around to eating any of it because that was when Hermione opened her eyes, thoroughly distracting him from all thought of breakfast. Then there was…

"Go home, Draco," Gus urged, interrupting his thoughts. "I'll look in on Hermione for you."

"I'm all right. Besides, she's not your patient. This isn't even your ward."

"I'm well aware of that, thanks," said Gus, "but I know you, and I know you'd work yourself to death if you're left with no one to look after you. So I'm here to tell you to go home, before I curse your sorry arse and force you to get some bloody sleep."

Draco smiled. He knew Gus' threat was an empty one, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

"I will. Thanks mate. I just want to finish up a few things here, then I'll be off, I promise," Draco assured him.

"Okay then," Gus said, turning to go before stopping in the doorway. "Oh, hey, why don't you come round to ours for dinner tomorrow night. It's my night off and Penny's doing a roast."

"I still can't believe you married Peter Weasley's ex-girlfriend," Draco said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"First of all, it's _Percy_ Weasley, and he's not a bad bloke once you get to know him. Secondly, that was like, fifteen years ago! Penelope and I have been married for over three years! When are you going to let the whole Weasley thing go?"

"I just question her judgment, that's all. I mean, she left Weasley and married you after all," he teased, before hastily adding, "but she can cook. I'll give her that."

"So we'll see you tomorrow?" Gus asked, choosing to ignore Draco's barb.

"Fine then. Twist my arm why don't you."

"Great. I'll tell Pen. Now get out of here!" Gus chided a final time before departing.

"Yes, _father_ ," Draco called after him.

He closed the door on Gus' retreating backside and approached the bed, looking down at Hermione's still form. Her eyes were as wide and unblinking as they'd been that morning. The sight of her was rather unnerving. She almost looked as if she'd been petrified.

In order to give himself something useful to do, Draco recast the charm he'd used to prevent her eyes from dying out. At first he'd been unwilling to use the spell in the hopes that a small amount of dry eye would at least cause her to blink, but when she remained unmoving for more than an hour, he thought better of it and reluctantly resorted to the magical solution.

Once again Hermione appeared not to notice the effects of the spell. Draco was more than disappointed by her non-reaction. He debated whether or not to put her back to sleep with another potion, but decided against it. At this point, he thought it best to let nature run its course.

Draco absently reached out to brush an errant hair from her forehead, but stopped himself. Instead he gripped the metal bed frame and squeezed until his knuckles turned white, sighing in frustration.

"Come on, Granger. Wake up. Haven't you had enough of a lie in yet?" he goaded. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. You can't hide from this. You have to face it eventually, and the longer you wait, the worse it's going to be. Believe me, I know."

And he did. Draco was all too familiar with the concept of shutting down one's mind and walling up the parts he didn't want to feel. It was a defense mechanism, a primal method of self-protection. A highly effective method he employed throughout the majority of his teenage years in a futile attempt to escape the horrors of his time as a Death Eater.

"You can pretend not to hear me all you like, but I'd bet good galleons that you can hear every word. Though I can't say I blame you for not wanting to talk to the likes of Potter or Weasley. With wankers like that for friends, who needs enemies, eh?"

He'd leave it to her supposed friends to coddle and coo at her bedside. Draco wasn't going to pull any punches. Let them stroke her hair and tell her how strong and brilliant she is, and how everything is going to be all right. Draco knew better. It wasn't going to be all right. Not for a long time. For now, it was going to be pain. That's what Hermione had to look forward to. She needed someone to tell it like it is, and that someone might as well be him.

"I don't know what you're waiting for…a gilded invitation to rejoin the land of the living? A fucking time-turner so you can erase the last twelve years and make it all go away?" he snapped, his exhaustion clearly getting the better of him. "The way I see it, you have two options. You can either stay as you are, all trapped in your head, forcing me to recast your stasis spells, or you can wake the fuck up and get on with it already."

She made no response. Not even a twitch. He didn't know what he hoped to accomplish by insulting her. Did he honestly believe he could anger her into wakefulness? Throwing himself down into the chair by the bed, he sighed again and stared at her for a long moment.

"Fine. You win," Draco said in defeat and, with a casual wave of his wand, he cast another charm ensuring that she wouldn't starve to death or wither away from dehydration.

"You know, it's funny," he continued, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, "I almost don't want you to wake up. Don't take that the wrong way, it's just… I've grown accustomed to our little chats, and I can't imagine they'll continue once you regain the power of speech and can exercise a choice in the matter. I expect I'm the last person you wanted to see upon waking, and I don't blame you for that. Really, I don't. I wouldn't have wanted to see me either. I'm not sure I even want to be in the room when you find out I'm the chief healer in charge of your care. Talk about irony…"

"I just want you to know – because I realize this may be the only chance I'll have to tell you – I am so sorry. This shouldn't be your life. You should be putting that brilliant mind of yours to work, doing something wonderful to change the world. You should be married with a family of your own, surrounded by the people you love…not lying here wasting away. And the fact that I played a part in…in what happened to you… I guess what I'm trying to say is, you deserve better than what you got and I'm sorry. I know nothing I can do is going to make it right, but still, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

Her answering silence was predictable, albeit disheartening. He slumped back down into the chair, rubbing his tired eyes and running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the ceiling, feeling the full weight of the last twenty-four hours bearing down on him. Letting out a long breath, Draco released some of the tension that had been building inside of him all day, flirting dangerously with his breaking point. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet solitude, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

* * *

A/N: Cheers to Aidenk77 for keeping my Britishisms legit since 2010!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

With awareness came pain. Blinding, all-encompassing pain that radiated from within her while, at the same time, pushed at her on all sides from without. She was at once weightless, yet so heavy she could barely move her limbs. It was the oddest sensation. Like being crushed by a thousand ton weight, but still somehow…floating. As soon as the thought sparked to life in her mind, she realized it was true. Someone was levitating her.

The pain continued to build within her, dulling her wits and making it difficult to discern the various sights and sounds bombarding her senses. For one thing, it was much too bright. It looked as though someone cast a lumos maxima charm right in her face, making it impossible to ascertain her surroundings.

Wherever she was, the noise was incredible. Earth-shattering screams echoed all around her, filling the empty spaces in her body, acting as a perfect counterpoint to the rapidly escalating pain. It was a full moment before comprehension dawned and she became aware that the screams were issuing from her own voice.

The small portion of her brain still capable of thought made an idle attempt to catalogue the pain and determine its origin. It wasn't the stabbing or burning pain she'd come to associate with the cruciatus curse, which was unfortunate, as that might've also explained the levitation. Nor was it the stinging pain of an open wound or the throbbing pain of infection. Whatever was causing it; it was a pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was nearly unendurable and growing exponentially with each passing second.

The agony of simply being in her body was incredible. She wondered vaguely if she would die from it, though there were no emotions tied to the thought. She was utterly incapable of anything as nuanced as having preferences at that moment. Even the desire for self-preservation was beyond her grasp. Pain was the only tangible part of her existence, and she clung to it desperately, lest it consume her.

Then something inside of her broke. She was blasted apart and pieces of her flew away, soaring off in every direction. The pain bubble burst, breaking the levitation spell, and sending her sprawling to the floor. Her screams broke off abruptly upon impact, and suddenly she remembered. It all came flooding back, who she was and what she was supposed to be doing. A distant voice in her head whispered, _fight_. _You must keep fighting._

She hastened to obey. Instantly, a dozen smaller, more familiar aches blossomed within her, but they were nothing by comparison. Blocking out these lesser pains was easy. She closed her eyes and scanned her body, assessing the damage. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she greedily sucked air into her lungs, which burned with each inhalation. A couple of her ribs were likely cracked. Nothing she couldn't handle.

She felt extremely sluggish and movement of any sort did not come easily. She was able to wiggle her fingers a bit, and was relieved to discover she hadn't been petrified. Her limbs felt heavy and numb, as if she'd been drugged. This triggered something in the deepest recesses of her mind and her survival instincts flared to life.

Hermione opened her eyes and struggled to push herself up, but her body wouldn't cooperate. She could barely lift her head to get a look around. The cool linoleum tiles beneath her served as evidence that she was no longer in the Great Hall. In fact, from what she could see, this room didn't look like it belonged anywhere inside Hogwarts. Where on earth was she?

Her anxiety grew with each unsuccessful attempt to hold herself up. At one point she managed to reach up and grab onto one of the curtains hanging from a nearby window. With an almighty tug, she lifted her unwilling body for a moment before crashing back to the floor. The gauzy fabric fluttered down after her, dropping onto her head and covering her face. It was then she noticed she was crying. The tears blurring her already obscured vision increased her panic and frustration tenfold.

An unexpected voice off to her left caused her to flinch in surprise. The voice was female, unfamiliar, and had spoken her name. Hermione responded instinctively, screaming as loudly as possible, as that was the only method of defense currently available to her. It appeared to work. The speaker went quiet again, but didn't leave the room.

How many others were there? Were they Death Eaters? She doubted very much that a fully-fledged Death Eater would be so easily deterred by an unarmed witch, but she didn't want to take any chances.

Drawing upon the last of her strength, Hermione gave one final push. Her muscles trembled and burned. She couldn't understand why she was suddenly so weak. Her efforts were rewarded when, inch by torturous inch, she was able to lift her torso and get a decent look at her surroundings. She was in a hospital, presumably St. Mungo's. The stark lighting, metal bed frame and antiseptic smell were a dead giveaway.

That's when she saw it. A wand. It was on the floor only a few short feet away. In her amazement, her arms gave out and she dropped back down to the floor, but she didn't care. Stretching her quaking arms, she groped frantically in the direction of the wand. She attempted a silent summoning spell, but nothing happened. Awkwardly, she scrabbled and clawed her way toward the wand, dragging her useless legs behind her, until she clutched the wooden miracle tightly in her hand.

It wasn't her wand, but at that moment she could've kissed the witch or wizard who'd dropped it. Without pausing to think, she began firing every curse she could think of in the direction of the voice. She heard a satisfying yelp and she hoped one of her curses connected. At the very least, it seemed to frighten her captor away, as she heard a door open and slam shut again.

When she was reasonably certain she was alone, her mind kicked into high gear and she began assessing her options and planning her escape. She'd obviously been wounded in the battle. But how had she gotten here? Where were Harry and Ron? Had they been injured as well…or worse? What else would keep them from being at her bedside? For though she was a natural optimist, in situations such as these, Hermione thought it was safest to assume the worst.

The first step was to figure out why her legs didn't seem to work. Turning the wand on the lower half of her body, she cast a simple _finite_ hoping to counteract whatever curse Bellatrix may have used on her. Best to start with the basics after all. Nothing happened. In fact, she felt no magical energy coming from the wand at all.

"Lumos!" she cried.

Glancing at the wand's tip, she saw no light. Not even the briefest flicker.

"Lumos!" she shouted again, but still there was nothing.

"Accio wand!" she tried, in the vain hope that her own wand was somewhere nearby.

It was not.

A cold dread came upon her. Why wasn't the wand working? She'd used another witch's wand before – Bellatrix Lestranges' no less – and though it hadn't responded to her as well as her own, she'd been able to cast nearly every spell she'd wanted with it. This was more than a little disconcerting.

She needed to get out of there. Hermione tried once again to force her legs to move, but they stubbornly refused to oblige. She'd apparently used up the last of her strength obtaining the wand, and so she lay there on the floor, panting and fretting.

Unbidden, visions of the battle came flooding back, clouding her thoughts: the cries of the wounded, the flashing of curses, and the sharp smell of blood. Tonks and Lupin laid out on the stone floor, cold and lifeless as Ginny arranged their hands so they might stay connected in death; a grief-stricken George weeping over the body of his dead twin; and the scores of other bodies, friend and foe alike, strewn about the castle, never to rise again.

Hermione began to hyperventilate. She broke out in a cold sweat, her eyes brimming with tears. The adrenaline previously coursing through her veins vanished, leaving her limp and exhausted. The numbness seemed to be wearing off as well, and the pain she'd been ignoring returned in full force.

The combined fear and pain hit her like a tidal wave, overwhelming her senses and knocking out the last of her resolve. Her nerves were frayed and raw and she began to tremble uncontrollably. Hermione cried in earnest then. Wishing for the earth to swallow her up so she wouldn't have to feel anymore. But it didn't. So she sobbed. Howling uncontrollably, completely at a loss for what else to do.

oooOOOooo

Then he was there. That voice who'd been her only companion in the darkness - that lone point of light punctuating her otherwise endless night. He was calling her name. But something wasn't right. His voice, though familiar, sounded wrong without the shroud of darkness surrounding it.

Instinctively flinching away from the sound, she tensed and readied herself for battle once more. Gripping the wand in one white-knuckled hand, she cast curse after ineffectual curse. There was no burst of magic. She felt nothing except mounting exhaustion. She was so tired. Even the simple act of lifting her head became too daunting a task to attempt.

The voice was speaking to her again, but none of it made any sense. She must be confusing him with someone else. Someone who's face she couldn't recall, but whose presence she thought she could identify by a clean, masculine scent and a soothing tone of voice.

She felt the tingle of a spell ghost across her skin and the floating sensation caught her off guard. She tensed, half expecting her earlier pain to return, but mercifully, it did not and she landed gently upon the bed.

Hermione peered around the room briefly and, sensing no immediate threat, burst forth with a dozen questions. But rather than explaining her predicament, each new piece of information seemed to lead to more questions and few answers.

Harry and Ron were alive. That much she knew. That was the one life raft she could cling to. Wherever they were, they were alive, and for the time being, that was enough.

She looked at the speaker, then. Really looked at him. There was something in his expression she recognized. She thought for a moment…but no, he wasn't a healer. That was ridiculous. There was obviously sort of curse that was meddling with her cognitive functioning. That, or she'd hit her head during the battle and the wires in her brain had been crossed somehow because, while she understood all of his words individually, they got all jumbled when she tried to put them together. All but two words, that is.

Twelve years.

Those two little words were like interlocking puzzle pieces sliding into place in her brain, connecting the remaining dots and filling in the formerly incomplete picture. It was too much, much too much for her to comprehend. So she let go. But just before the doors of her conscious mind slammed shut, she locked eyes with him. And in that moment, she knew.

Then everything went dark once more.

oooOOOooo

Hermione drifted in and out of consciousness. The lines between sleep and wakefulness were too blurry for her to discern. Sometimes when she thought she was sleeping, she'd idly notice that her eyes were open, but she was too weak to do anything about it. So she didn't. Her poor, battered psyche had been through too much in the last… She didn't care to think how long. As a matter of fact, she didn't care to think at all. So she didn't.

Though she had a vague awareness of where she was, her mind had vacated the premises. She felt distinctly separate and apart from her body; incorporeal, insubstantial, and wholly incapable of engaging with the physical world. Her body meant pain, so she'd abandoned it, luxuriating in the blissful disconnection. And now that her mind was no longer a safe place, she'd forsaken it, too.

Instead of thinking, she sang. Not out loud, for the use of her vocal cords was well beyond her reach, but in her head she sang the Hogwarts school song, over and over again on an endless loop…

 _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

 _Teach us something please,_

 _Whether we be old and bald,_

 _Or young with scabby knees,_

 _Our heads could do with filling,_

 _With some interesting stuff,_

 _For now they're bare and full of air,_

 _Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

 _So teach us things worth knowing,_

 _Bring back what we've forgot,_

 _Just do your best,_

 _We'll do the rest,_

 _And learn until our brains all rot._

Occasionally something would break through the defenses she'd unwittingly built up around her conscious mind, interrupting the verse. And it took all of her remaining concentration to keep the pieces of the song together.

 _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

 _Teach us something please…_

"Ms. Granger? Can you hear me?"

 _Whether we be old and bald,_

 _Or young with scabby knees…_

"I suspect she's in shock."

 _Our heads could do with filling,_

 _With some interesting stuff…_

"Hermione? Hermione, love, wake up. We're all here with you. Everything's going to be all right."

 _For now they're bare and full of air,_

 _Dead flies and bits of fluff…_

"You stupid git! This is all your fault! You just couldn't leave well enough alone..."

 _So teach us things worth knowing…_

"Rest now, Mione. We'll be back tomorrow."

 _Bring back what we've forgot…_

"Why don't you come round to ours for dinner tomorrow night…Penny's doing a roast."

 _Just do your best…_

"You have to face it eventually… Believe me, I know."

 _We'll do the rest…_

"Wake the fuck up and get on with it already."

 _And learn until our brains all rot._

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

 _Hogwarts, Hogwarts…_

 _Twelve years…_

 _Bring back what we've forgot…_

 _I'm sorry…_

 _Twelve years…_

 _Just do your best…_

 _I'm so sorry…_

Too soon the song unraveled completely. Consciousness came rushing back to her like a speeding comet, careening headlong into the walls separating mind from body; sleep from wakefulness. Hermione woke with a start. She took an experimental breath and found the pain in her ribs was gone. Her limbs still felt stiff and heavy with weakness, but they didn't hurt nearly as much anymore.

The room was in semi darkness, bathed in the warm orange glow of a muggle street lamp shining through the diaphanous fabric of the recently repaired curtains. All was quiet, apart from a soft, rhythmic sound somewhere off to Hermione's left. It sounded like breathing. She thought for a moment that she must be connected to a respirator, but that wasn't right. They didn't use muggle machinery at St. Mungo's. They had spells for that sort of thing.

Turning her head in the direction of the sound and winching at the stiffness in her neck, she looked over and saw Draco Malfoy sleeping peacefully in the chair by her bedside. His slow, steady breaths the only movement in the otherwise still room.

She hadn't recognized him when she first woke. His face, while familiar, looked so much older. Which, Hermione reasoned, wasn't terribly surprising after twelve years. There were fine lines around his eyes and a crease in his brow, even in sleep. He had the same pointed nose and patrician features that she remembered, but his hair was much shaggier now and a darker shade of blonde. He no longer wore it slicked back and several pieces fell into his eyes, framing his face and softening his features. The look suited him. He'd filled out as well, particularly around the middle where he'd developed a bit of a paunch, which was mitigated somewhat by his tall frame and broad shoulders.

At first his presence had confirmed her worst fears, and she indulged in a brief panic, assuming Voldemort had won and the Death Eaters were holding her captive. Performing experiments on her all these years, trying to determine the source of her magic. Turning her back into a muggle. Perhaps that's why she hadn't been able to perform any spells. Wouldn't that be a fitting punishment from a Malfoy?

But she'd gleaned enough information while in her state of quasi consciousness to surmise that wasn't the case. Harry and Ron were alive. She'd heard their voices, and she was reasonably certain it hadn't been a dream. They were shouting at Malfoy, which seemed likely enough, knowing them as she did. A tiny, nagging voice in her head whispered, _used to_. _It's been twelve years after all. You may not know them at all anymore…_ She shook her head in an attempt to block those troubling thoughts, and the muscles in her neck protested violently at the movement.

Now she was alone in a dark room with Draco Malfoy. And he was a fully trained healer, if his robes were any indication. Presumably he was her healer. Talk about irony…

As if he could hear her thoughts, her former schoolmate began to stir. She was tempted to turn away, pretending to revert to her former state of oblivion, if only to prolong the inevitable, but it was too late. His eyes snapped open and locked onto hers, seemingly unsure of what he was seeing.

Mustering what was left of her Gryffindor courage, Hermione took a deep breath and, in voice so hoarse she barely recognized it as her own, she broke the silence.

"Hello there, Healer Malfoy. Care to explain?"

* * *

A/N: Thanks again Aidenk77! #bestbetaever


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Hello there, Healer Malfoy. Care to explain?"

She stared at him expectantly. He stared back, unsure of what to do.

"Herm– Ms. Granger," he started, sitting up and rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes. He blinked a few times to be sure this wasn't some elaborate hallucination brought on by extreme exhaustion.

"Well? Out with it. I haven't got all night. What happened to me? How did I wind up here? What's been going on in the world for the past twelve years?"

Though her last question was delivered with a trace of her characteristically arch sense of humor, her voice sounded cracked and horse from lack of use. The combination was rather unnerving.

"I've got a number of questions myself," Draco said evasively.

"I'd image you do, but considering the circumstances, I think it's only fair to answer mine first," she countered.

"Fair enough," he conceded. "There's much to discuss. It's difficult to know where to begin…"

"Start at the beginning. If I've truly been here for over twelve years, I assume I was seriously injured in the Battle at Hogwarts, as that's the last thing I remember. Since Harry and Ron are alive, I think I can also safely assume that You-Know-Who was unsuccessful in his attempt to destroy the world?"

Draco took a long pause before responding.

"We don't call him You-Know-Who anymore. Minister Shacklebolt felt it glorified the atrocities he committed. People generally refer to him as Voldemort or simply, Riddle now."

She stared blankly at him for a moment before narrowing her eyes.

"That's the detail you chose to lead with? Seriously? I'm lying here in a hospital bed, unable to move of my own volition, and you lead with some tidbit about Voldemort? Thanks, Malfoy. I'm so relieved to know that I won't be committing a social faux pas by using his former honorific. Now tell me how I got here."

Draco obliged; struggling through an awkward, halting retelling of the events of the last twelve years, faithfully recounting all he knew about the final battle and their respective roles in it. Though he did most of the talking, she occasionally interjected with questions and he did his best to answer them. He laid bare the facts, not pulling any punches. Including all of the gory details about his father's actions, subsequent execution, and her resulting predicament. The only detail Draco deliberately omitted was the fact that it had been he who'd argued for the prolongation of her stasis spells, despite the best efforts of her friends.

"I'm afraid that's all we know," he finished.

"What about…" she hesitated for the briefest second, "what do you know about Harry and Ron? What happened to them after I… I mean I assume they haven't spent the last twelve years crying at my bedside."

Her attempt at a breezy, casual tone was somewhat diminished by the rising colour in her cheeks. Until that point Draco had avoided delving too deep into the subject of her closest companions. While he'd never paid much attention to their social lives back in their school days, he'd always harbored a suspicion that she and Weasley had been more than friends. He therefore proceeded with caution.

"After killing Voldemort, Potter naturally became an Auror and was soon elevated to the highest rank in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Weasley started the Auror training program with him, but didn't finish. He eventually went into business with one of his brothers, at that joke shop in Diagon Alley."

Despite his resolve not to spare her feelings and tell it like it is, he was equally desirous to spare her any additional pain, and tried to keep his remarks as vague as possible.

"Are they married?"

"To each other?" Draco smirked in spite of himself, and he was rewarded with a flicker of a smile from Hermione.

"Come on, Malfoy."

"Yes, they're both married. Potter married the youngest Weasley, to the surprise of exactly no one…"

"And Ron?" she prompted, her desperation plain.

"He married that Hufflepuff girl from our year…Susan Bones, I believe."

"Really? How wonderful."

Her tone was light, but there was hurt behind the words.

"How long have they been married?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Do they have any children?"

"Yes."

His response hung heavily in the air between them, casting a pall over her already gaunt features. With that one little word Draco delivered the deathblow, and was forced to watch as all of Hermione's girlish fantasies about her future with the ginger-headed weasel went up in smoke. After all, a marriage could potentially be undone. Children could not. He had to remind himself that though her body had aged, her emotional intelligence was that of an eighteen year-old girl; an exceptionally mature eighteen year-old to be sure, but still that of a teenager who had little to no experience with adult relationships.

"Well, Ms. Granger, I'm sure you're exhausted. My examination can wait until morning."

"It is morning," she replied in a whisper.

"I'm sorry?"

"Either the window is charmed, or the sun is rising…or both," she observed without much interest. "So if you wouldn't mind, I'd prefer to answer your questions now. I'd rather not be left to stew in my own thoughts at the moment."

He understood, and despite his own exhaustion, once again he obliged her.

"All right then. Can I get you anything before we begin? A glass of water perhaps?"

He was ashamed of himself for not thinking of it sooner. She nodded in reply and he conjured a glass, placing it on a tray beside the bed. When she'd taken a few sips and settled herself, he began the interrogation.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I'm stiff, my arms feel heavy, and my legs don't seem to work, which I assume is to do to muscular atrophy, but apart from that I'm fine."

He smiled at her then. "Your assumption is correct. I've found no irreparable physical damage. With a bit of physical therapy, you should be up and walking again in no time."

"That's something I suppose," she said, resigned.

"What is the last thing you remember…from before?" he asked tentatively.

"Duelling with Belatrix in the Great Hall," she supplied.

"You don't remember anything else?"

"No…not really. There are images, but they feel more like dreams. The more I try to remember them, the faster they slip away."

"Okay," he said, making a mental note to revisit that subject later. "What happened when you woke up? As I already explained, I've viewed the memories of the trainee healer who was with you when you first awoke. She was levitating you in order to remake the bed, but somehow you were able to break her levitation spell. Can you tell me anything about that?" He was excited now. Finally he was going to put together another piece of this interminable puzzle. "What do you remember?"

"Pain," she replied in the barest whisper. "So much pain. Like the cruciatus, but different…worse. Much worse. I couldn't…I-I didn't think I'd…"

At the memory she dissolved into quiet tears. Draco conjured a handkerchief and pressed it into her trembling hands. The silence between them was thick while Hermione steadied her breathing and regained her composure.

"We don't have to-"

"I'm all right," she said.

"Can you describe the pain?" he queried, pushing his feelings aside and allowing his clinical training to come to the fore.

She thought for a moment before answering.

"Pressure," she replied at last. "It felt like everything on the inside of my body was suddenly trying to escape through my skin."

"How long did the pressure last?"

"I'm not sure. It felt like hours, but based on what you told me about your trainee's memory, I imagine it couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes."

"And the pain stopped when...?"

"I was on the floor."

Draco didn't know what to make of that. He dreaded asking his next question, but pushed ahead anyway.

"What happened when you picked up Trainee Michael's wand?"

She looked stricken, more so than after his revelation about Weasley's marriage and children.

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" he pressed.

"No-thing," she said, articulating each syllable with force. "I didn't feel anything. No twinge of magic. No warmth. Nothing. At first I didn't notice because I thought I was still fighting, but after I had a minute to determine where I was, I thought maybe the room prevented me from doing magic, or that I'd been cursed. Then when I saw you, I mistook you for your father and feared that the Death Eaters had captured me and that you'd found a way to take away my magic…" she trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"Your imagination works fast."

His tone was light, but her mistaking him for Lucius made Draco decidedly uncomfortable.

"Given the circumstances, it was a reasonable assumption," she said, suddenly defensive. "Speaking of Death Eaters, how in Merlin's name did the Ministry allow one of them to become a healer?"

Her eyes grew dark and hard as stone. She was obviously referring to him. Draco took a calming breath before he answered.

"Potter vouched for me. He insisted the Ministry clear my mother and I of all wrongdoing. They determined that we were the victims of coercion, unwillingly conscripted into following Voldemort, upon penalty of torture and death."

"And were they correct in their determination?" she asked coldly.

"Don't-" he said in a low, warning voice. "I may have born the mark, but I was never one of them."

"Oh? What about Dumbledore and letting all those Death Eaters into the castle?"

"I was sixteen years old and he threatened to kill my mother!" Draco replied hotly, his voice rising.

"So were Harry, Ron, and I! You could've asked for help! You could've gone to Dumbledore!" she cried, her voice breaking on their former headmaster's name.

"Hermione, I was living with the greatest legilimens of all time!" he practically roared, rising from his chair. "Until you know what it was like in that house, with _him_ living there, holding court, killing at will. You have no idea. I did what I needed to do to survive."

"Is everything all right in here? I heard shouting."

Mediwitch Thompson entered the room looking wary. After a tense silence, Hermione spoke in a tone devoid of any of her previous emotion.

"It's nothing. Healer Malfoy and I were merely reminiscing about old times."

"I see," replied Thompson, thoroughly unconvinced. "Are you hungry? It's almost time for breakfast."

"Yes, actually. I'm famished," Hermione replied, a telltale rumble issuing from somewhere beneath her blankets.

"That's a good sign," Draco remarked, resuming a more Healerly air.

"Would you like anything in particular? The St. Mungo's tea room doesn't offer the finest cuisine in Britain, but they do all right," Thompson said with a smile.

"You know, I could go for a bacon sandwich," said Hermione, somewhat bemused.

"One bacon sandwich coming up. Is there anything else?" the mediwitch asked.

"Um, no, but I-I do rather have to use the loo," she said, with no small amount of discomfiture. "And I can't exactly walk, so…"

"Oh! Of course," the kindly elder woman said with a smile. "Perhaps Healer Malfoy..." who was currently staring aimlessly into space, "…could find an orderly to fetch the breakfast, while I tend to our patient."

Draco started at the sound of his name and nodded in the affirmative before making his way to the door. Then, so low that only he could hear, Mediwitch Thompson said, "I don't know what's been going on in here, but you look like you could do with a lie down. Truly, you look awful," she added in earnest.

"Thank you, Louise, but I assure you, I'm fine." To Hermione he added, "I'll be back to check in on you later, and I'll send someone up with that sandwich."

"Get one for yourself while you're at it," said Thompson. "And for the love of Merlin, Draco, go home. I'm confident we can find a way to muddle through without you for a little while anyway," she teased.

"Yes, ma'am."

As he headed for the door Draco heard Healer Thompson approach the bed saying, "Well then, Ms. Granger, why don't we just do this the old fashioned way and I'll scoop you up? You're such a little thing!"

Draco stepped out into the hall to flag down a passing orderly. The corridor was filled with far more people than usual at this time of the morning. Most were milling about, failing in an attempt to look busy. Word of Ms. Granger's re-reawakening had obviously spread.

"Oi, Perkins!" Draco called to a passing orderly. "Can you bring us a couple of bacon sandwiches, please? And could the rest of you kindly do a better job of pretending to be working?"

The hallway cleared considerably after his admonishment, with various orderlies, mediwitches, and trainees scattering in every direction until only an ancient and half-deaf custodian remained, mopping the same section of floor over and over again at the far end of the corridor.

Against the overwhelming protests of his fatigued bodied and sleep-deprived mind, Draco opted not to go home. Partly because if he left, he suspected Hermione would soon be inundated by well-meaning members of the staff who, spurred on by curiosity, might be tempted to flout his order that no one should enter her room without his expressed permission; but mostly he was anxious to continue their earlier conversation. He feared he hadn't expressed himself very well. He needed her to understand that he was no longer the frightened boy who'd made the wrong choice – so many of the wrong choices – in their youth.

Lost in a sea of fraught musings, Draco slumped into a chair outside of Hermione's door while he waited for the orderly to return with the sandwiches. He must have dozed off again because he was suddenly jolted awake by a terrible scream followed by a shattering crash. Both sounds had unmistakably come from Hermione's room. He immediately sprang to his feet and threw open the door, dreading the fresh hell which surely awaited him inside.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Hermione was sprawled on the floor of the loo amidst a pile of glittering, shattered glass. It sparkled all around her, reflecting the light, doubly refracted through her shining tears. Her leg was bent at an odd angle but, as it was totally numb and she couldn't move it even if she'd wanted to, she made no attempt to adjust her position. She raised one arm and watched idly as tiny droplets of blood began to bead on her skin before welling up and dripping down onto the tiles.

The mediwitch called Thompson was fussing over her, frantically cleaning and healing her wounds, removing shards of glass from her skin and hair. She was speaking, but Hermione couldn't register any of the words. Then he was with her again. She didn't hear him come in, but there was a masculine scent in the air, something musky and sharp, like stale sweat mingling with the antiseptic hospital smell and the metallic odor of blood.

"What the hell happened?" he cried, kneeling beside her.

"I don't know, sir," the elder witch responded. "The mirror…it just…shattered. As if someone blasted it apart with a reductor curse."

"Did she have a wand?" he asked in confusion.

"No. And mine was holstered the whole time."

They were speaking in a clipped, professional tone. To Hermione it sounded as if all of their words were filtered through thick molasses.

"We can't work in here, it's too small. We'll have to move her."

"Levitation spells?"

"No magic. We lift on my count. Ready? One, two, three!"

Then she was in the air, held aloft by two pairs of strong arms. The healers wore grim expressions as they maneuvered her back toward the bed, their faces tight with concentration. Hermione noticed then that the mediwitch was also covered in an array of tiny, bleeding cuts.

"You're bleeding," Hermione tried to tell her, but neither of her caregivers seemed to hear her.

"Don't worry, Ms. Granger, we've got you."

"Keep that leg steady."

"Gently now."

They laid her back down on the bed as though she were extremely fragile and liable to shatter herself. The mediwitch drew her wand and continued to clean and heal her many abrasions.

"Stop," Malfoy commanded.

"What? Why?" the older woman asked, mid-spell.

"No magic," he replied.

"But these lacerations are so shallow. I can heal them in a second."

"That's exactly my point. It's safer to let them heal on their own."

"That makes no sense! What about her leg? She's got a nasty sprain at the very least!"

"I know, but there's obviously something strange going on here. Something I don't fully understand. And until I do, I'm not using any unnecessary spells on her. It's too risky. No magic," he repeated with finality.

"As you say, then. I'll go fetch the iodine and some bandages."

Mediwitch Thompson withdrew from the room, and Malfoy assumed her work.

He leaned over Hermione's prone figure, manually removing a shard of mirror glass from her temple with a small metal instrument before dabbing at the blood with a handkerchief. She was still mostly numb and hardly felt it. Instead she was focused intently on several locks of his hair, carefully monitoring their progress as, one by one, they slid across his brow and fell into his eyes. He seemed not to notice.

There came a soft knock at the door.

"What?" barked Malfoy, by way of invitation.

"Sir, I brought those sandwiches," said a timid looking dark-skinned wizard in pale blue orderly's robes.

"Thank you, Perkins. You can leave them by the door."

Perkins set the tray on a vacant chair and looked nervously at his superior, clearly waiting for further instruction.

"Is there anything else I can-"

"That will be all," Draco said dismissively, never once looking up from his work.

Perkins beat a hasty retreat. Apparently Healer Malfoy was quite the authority figure at St. Mungo's. Either that, or he was still a first class bully. Though Hermione couldn't be sure, she suspected it was the former. For, while he was by no means friendly, Malfoy was brisk and efficient in his work, performing his duties skillfully and largely in silence. The only sound, apart from the soft _chink_ of glass as each piece was extracted and dropped into a small basin, was that of his slow, rhythmic breathing.

Hermione unconsciously began to sync her breaths with his, and her heart rate eventually slowed. As the adrenaline wore off, she was no longer able to ignore the throbbing pain in her left knee and the stinging cuts speckling her face, arms, and hands. Despite her discomfort, she made no sound. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He'd already seen her cry more times than she'd care to acknowledge. She simply continued to breathe.

"That's good," he coached her. "Breathe in," he inhaled with her, still not looking up from his work, "…and out."

They breathed together a few more times while he looked her over, seemingly satisfied. Then he moved down to her leg, lifting it off the bed and bending her sore knee experimentally.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"It's fine," she said through gritted teeth.

"That's what I thought," he replied, laying her leg gently back down on the bed. "The good news is it isn't broken. It's just a sprain. The swelling should go down on it's own, but you'll have to stay off it for a couple of days at the very least."

"You're hilarious, Malfoy."

"Look, I can give you a pain potion, but I'd like to avoid magical solutions for the time being, if possible. I'd prefer to start with some muggle analgesics first. Would that be all right with you?"

"What do you know about muggle pain medication?" she scoffed.

"More than you think."

He left her then, returning moments later with some painkillers and a glass of water. She swallowed the pills without question, draining the glass in the process. It wasn't so much that she suddenly trusted him; she just couldn't be bothered to care about her own welfare at the moment.

They sat in silence again for a long time. Then he broke it and, in a softer tone, asked, "Are you ready to tell me what happened?"

Unbidden, her lower lip began to tremble as fresh tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks; the salt adding to the sting of her injuries. She willed the tears to stop, but they flowed on, heedless of her wishes. In that moment, she hated herself for her lack of restraint. And she hated him for bearing witness to her weakness. But there was no use for it. Her shame and embarrassment might as well be complete.

"I got old," Hermione said with a sad smile, as the tears continued to stream down her once youthful face.

oooOOOooo

It happened just after she'd gone to the loo. Mediwitch Thompson stepped out of the room after helping Hermione onto the toilet so she could 'tend to her necessaries.' She came back in when called so she could hoist Hermione back up again. The older witch guided her over to the tap so she could wash. That's when Hermione looked up at the mirror hanging above the sink.

She froze as she locked eyes with her reflection. The woman staring back at her looked positively haggard. It was so surreal. The last time she gazed into a mirror, a happy and confident eighteen-year-old girl smiled back at her. This strange woman standing before her now bore almost no resemblance to that girl. She was old, much too old. Hermione had obviously done the math, but the woman in this horrible image appeared to be ever so much more than thirty.

To start, she was painfully slender. All sharp angles and jutting bones, with none of Hermione's former curves. Her once creamy skin was now papery and lined, her rosy cheeks hollow and gaunt. Her lips had become thin, drawn, and pale. Her infamous curls, always lustrous and wild, had vanished. In their place was a thinning mass of lifeless, matted frizz. And apart from the dark purple circles entrenched beneath them, her inquisitive brown eyes were perhaps her only recognizable feature.

Hermione couldn't be sure how long she'd spent staring at the mirror before she began to tremble, shaking uncontrollably with fear, grief, and rage. She balked at the unfairness of it all. She had been brave. She had fought. She had sacrificed. And yet she'd become this wretched, piteous thing. Robbed of more than a decade of her life, possibly even robbed of her magic, while Harry and Ron – even a coward like Draco Malfoy - were granted the sort of future that ought to have been hers.

As her thoughts grew darker, the quaking grew more violent. The mediwitch was on her at once, keeping a firm grip on her waist as Hermione clung, white-knuckled to the sink. Her eyes clamped tightly, she began to feel a familiar pressure building inside her head, spreading slowly throughout her entire body. She bit down hard on her back teeth, grinding them together, desperately fighting to contain whatever it was that was trying to get out. Eventually, the pressure became too much for her small body to suppress, and she let loose a long, ear-splitting roar which shattered the mirror, laying waste to her hideous reflection.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Draco listened patiently as Hermione recounted her version of the dramatic events from earlier that morning. His mind was reeling. He wondered how he might have reacted had their positions been reversed. He couldn't imagine his eighteen-year-old self looking into a mirror and seeing his thirty-year-old reflection. That would be quite a shock for anyone, not to mention someone who hadn't seen the light of day in more than a decade.

Perhaps it was because he was used to seeing her in her current state, but Draco didn't notice a tremendous difference in her appearance from their school days. Admittedly, she was rather pale and thin, and her hair was more unruly than usual, but none of those things could diminish the bright shine of her deep brown eyes, at least not in his opinion. Lest his thoughts delve any deeper into dangerous territory, Draco made an effort to pull himself together. He realized then that she finished speaking and was staring at him. He needed to say something.

"Thirty is hardly old, Granger," he said finally, "especially for a witch."

"It doesn't appear that I am a witch anymore, so I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're still a witch."

"I can't do magic anymore, can I?" she countered hotly.

"Unless I'm very much mistaken, you've got a tremendous amount of magic rattling around somewhere in there," he replied, gesturing vaguely to her middle. "Now, you may not be able to access it or control it at the moment, but that doesn't mean it's not there."

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sniff. "Well, you'll forgive me for not accepting your word on that, Malfoy," she said with a sneer that would've made even Pansy Parkinson proud. "May I have that sandwich now, please? I'm starving."

They ate largely in silence, neither one looking at the other for any length of time. The awkwardness was palpable. Draco found it strange to think how many times he'd eaten this same sandwich in this very room, and how suddenly aware he'd become of the sound of his own chewing.

"How is it?" he asked.

"Hm?" she replied, distracted.

"The sandwich. Is it okay, or would you prefer something else?"

"Oh, it's fine," she said. "It's surprisingly good, in fact. I never cared for bacon, you know…before, but I suddenly had a craving for it. It's odd."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," he supplied, cringing at his conversational ineptitude. He'd always been terrible at making small talk.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the way her hands trembled as she raised the sandwich to her mouth, taking tiny, measured bites, and wincing every time the movement of her mouth pulled at one of the cuts on her face.

When she'd eaten her fill, which was hardly enough to sustain a small bird, Draco cleared away the remains of their breakfast.

"Can I get you anything else?" he inquired, sounding more like a waiter than a healer.

"Could I have my wand?" she asked tentatively, and rushing to add, "That is, if you even have it. I mean I realize it might have been lost in the battle or-"

"It's here," Draco said, removing it from an interior pocket in his robes. "I have it right here."

He carefully handed her the wand and watched as a look of profound relief washed over her.

"Anything?" he inquired without much hope.

"No," she responded with a slight shake of her head.

"That doesn't mean anything," he said, trying to sound encouraging. "While I obviously don't know anything for certain, I do have a few ideas about what may be happening."

"Oh?" she asked disinterestedly.

"I'm starting to think that perhaps you've simply forgotten how to access your magical energy, and because it's been pent up for so long, it's been escaping in bursts whenever you experience strong emotions. Not unlike the way a young witch or wizard will unconsciously produce bouts of magic before they get a wand and learn to control it."

"I suppose that makes sense," she allowed.

"Think about it," he said, feeling a bit of excitement at the thought, "your leg muscles may have forgotten how to walk, but that doesn't mean they can't be retrained. We simply have to rediscover how to channel your magical energy."

"But what if it's gone? What if I've used it all up?"

It looked like it cost her to voice this fear aloud, and Draco rushed to respond.

"Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. That's the first law of thermodynamics."

"True, but energy can be transferred from one form to another. What if your father's curse somehow syphoned away my magic and transferred it to another person, and my body is simply burning off what's left?"

He deflated a bit at her theory, but tried not to let it show.

"I've never heard of such a curse before. Have you?"

"No, but-"

"Then we'll be operating under my hypothesis for the time being, all right?"

"Fine," she sighed. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Fire away," he said, trying to sound casual, despite being on edge.

"Where in Merlin's name did you learn about muggle medicine and the laws of thermodynamics?"

"Oh," he said, relaxing, "after my formal healer training, I spent a few terms at a Oxford."

"Really?"

He nodded in assent.

"Well aren't you just full of surprises," she said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Evidently you can," he countered, flashing her a rare, wry smile.

Her cheeks flushed at that, or at least Draco thought they had. It was difficult to tell beneath all the bandages peppering her face. She studied him for a moment before continuing.

"What are you still doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're a healer…shouldn't you be tending to your other patients?"

"I'm not technically on duty until this evening," he replied automatically, the words flying out of his mouth before he'd realized he said them.

"Then I'll ask again. What are you still doing here?"

"I thought…what with everything that's happened in the past few days, you shouldn't be alone right now."

"But you hate me."

That brought him up short. It was easy to forget that the last time they'd encountered each other before her injury she was being tortured by his aunt, in his family's drawing room.

"Hermione, I…"

But he was spared the necessity of a proper response by the entrance of Trainee Michaels.

"Pardon me, Healer Malfoy, there are some visitors here who are quite anxious to see Ms. Granger," Michaels said brightly.

What little colour there was left in Hermione's face faded in an instant.

"Please," Hermione said, ignoring Michaels, "I don't want to see anyone right now. I can't."

Her desperation was plain, and he though he wanted nothing more than to shield her from the pain she was sure to feel at seeing Potter and Weasley again, he knew she needed to face it eventually.

"I realize it's been a while, but I'm sure you remember how stubborn Potter can be. If I even try to deny him access, he'd file an injunction at the Ministry quicker than you could say 'apparate.' And he'd probably have me arrested to boot."

She made no response, but gave a resigned nod of the head.

"I'll have a word with them first. I promise it will be a short visit."

"All right," she said softly, "but please don't tell them about my magic. I don't want them to know."

"Of course not. Healer-patient confidentiality prevents me from divulging any of your medical information to anyone without your expressed consent."

She seemed reassured at that, but he noticed how her hands were trembling again as she fiddled nervously with the bed linens.

Draco stepped into the hall with Michaels following behind him.

"So help me, Malfoy, if she's still unconscious I'll see to it that you soon will be."

"Good morning to you too Potter," Draco said dryly. "For your information Ms. Granger is wide awake and is perfectly capable of speaking to you herself. Though why she'd want to is beyond me."

"So she's really awake and can talk and all?" asked Weasley.

"My, my Weasley, nothing gets past you, does it?"

Draco was far too exhausted to hide the naked hostility he felt toward his former schoolmates. Michaels looked decidedly uncomfortable watching their exchange.

"Well, get out of the way then so we can see her, you great git."

Swallowing the retort he so desperately wanted to hurl at Weasley, Draco took pains to answer as civilly as possible.

"Listen," Draco continued, "she's still very weak and she won't be up for a long chat. So try to keep it light, don't ask too many questions, and kindly hand over your wands to Ms. Michaels," he added, nodding to Isadora.

"Hand over our wands?" Potter asked, incredulous. "Why?"

"If you must know, Ms. Granger's treatment protocol requires that she not be exposed to any excessive magical energy at present. In order to prevent any inadvertent spell casting, I need you to turn over your wands. You needn't worry. Trainee Michaels is extremely trustworthy, and she'll be waiting just outside the door."

The pair reluctantly surrendered their wands before entering Hermione's room. Michaels handled the wands with the awe and reverence typically reserved for a newborn child, placing them gently into the pocket of her robes. Once the door had closed and the visitors were out of earshot, Draco gave some last minute instructions to his eager trainee.

"You don't leave this spot for a second, understand?"

"Of course, sir."

"In fifteen minutes you are to politely ask them to leave."

"But sir, he's Harry Potter," she breathed. "I couldn't possibly…"

"I don't care who he is. Fifteen minutes. If you're not up to the task, I'll remove you from my service and find someone who is capable of following instructions," Draco said trying not to sound too irritated by the awestruck manner with which she said Potter's name.

"No! That's not what I…I mean…what I meant to say is…of course, sir. Fifteen minutes. I understand."

"And no one else is allowed in the room without my expressed permission. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'm heading home for a few hours. Send me an owl if anything changes."

Draco guessed it was probably a mistake to leave Michaels in charge of ejecting Potter and Weasley when the time came, but there was nothing for it. He was too tired to hold his head up, never mind going to toe-to-toe with Potter and Weasley.

As he made his way down the corridor he noticed the elderly janitor who'd been mopping the floor earlier that morning was still at it. That roused his suspicion. His exhaustion getting the better of him, he snapped at the old man, "How long do you plan to mop that bit of floor? Sod off or I'll have you sacked."

The stooped man gave Draco a funny little half bow, mumbled an apology, and hobbled away as quickly as he arthritic knees would allow. Draco felt a momentary pang of regret as he followed the limping man out of the ward, but he couldn't be too careful. Once the man disappeared down the stairs, Draco locked the door to the Permanent Spell Damage Ward and, at long last, made his weary way home.

A/N: Thanks once again to Aidenk77 for the bang-up beta job! Keeping me as canon compliant as possible since 2011 :)


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Hermione!" exclaimed the red haired man as he bounded into the room. He was carrying a bouquet of sunflowers with long, gangling stems and blooms larger than her head. They were obviously not of the muggle variety. He stopped short as soon as he caught sight of her face. His jovial expression faltered and he blurted out, "What happened to your face?"

Ron was never one for subtly.

"Jesus, Ron," Harry said, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Well, she didn't look that way yesterday," whispered Ron defensively, rubbing his side with his free hand.

Hermione smiled in spite of herself, but the movement pulled at her bandages in a most unpleasant way causing her expression to transform into more of a grimace.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," chorused the other two.

They were all just looking at each other, at a loss for what to say. Hermione took the opportunity to study their faces. It seemed as though the years had been much kinder to Harry. Despite some faint lines around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, he'd retained most of his boyish good looks. He still wore his customary round glasses, which seemed to magnify his eyes. His black hair, which was graying slightly at the temples, was as untidy as ever, with the front styled to hide the scar on his forehead.

Ron hadn't fared quite so well in the looks department. Between his thinning hair and the extra stone or two he'd picked up around the middle, he appeared considerably older than Harry. Though his fair skin was more freckled than ever and there were deep creases across his brow, he still possessed the same sheepish grin and kind blue eyes that she'd loved when she was a girl. Upon closer inspection, Hermione thought he rather resembled his great auntie Muriel. Ron would hate that. She smiled at the thought.

"Brought you these," Ron said with a renewed attempt at a smile. "I remembered they were always your favorite."

They weren't, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

"Thank you," Hermione replied.

He thrust the flowers at her, but she made no move to accept them. Instead she held up her bandaged hands by way of an excuse. Mostly she was afraid her arms wouldn't be able to bear their weight, and she didn't want them to see how weak she'd become.

"I'll just conjure a vase for them," Ron started, and felt around his pockets for his wand, before he remembered it had been confiscated.

"I'll ask one of the orderlies to fetch one later," Hermione said.

"Right," said Ron, and he placed them awkwardly on the little side table by her bed.

"What happened, Hermione?" asked Harry.

"Oh these?" Hermione said, gesturing to the cuts on her face and hands. "It was nothing. An accident, that's all."

"Why haven't they healed?" Harry asked with concern.

"Malfoy says too much magic isn't good for me at the moment. It's nothing serious. I'm sure they'll heal just fine on their own."

"What's Malfoy playing at, not letting you use magic?" Ron spat indignantly.

"I have no idea," Hermione said, "but apparently he's in charge, so…"

"That must have been quite a shock for you, seeing him first thing when you woke up," said Harry.

"It was," she confessed. "I thought I'd been captured by the death eaters."

"Blimey," breathed Ron.

"I know," said Hermione.

"He's lucky you didn't curse him into oblivion. I would've paid good galleons to see that!" Ron chortled.

"Yes it was," Hermione replied. "I was too disoriented to cast any spells at the time, so as you say, lucky for him," she added, pretending to join in their laughter.

After their laughter died away, an awkward silence descended upon the trio. How on earth were they supposed to pick up where their friendship left off when one party has been ostensibly dead for twelve years? They'd now been apart for longer than they'd been friends. Harry and Ron had grown up and moved on. She supposed it was nice of them to come, but she was starting to wish they hadn't bothered.

"Has Malfoy told you much about your condition?" Harry asked.

"My condition?"

"I mean, the reason why you're here," he said, recovering.

"He's told me what he knows, which isn't much."

Harry made a thoughtful humming noise, but offered no other response, and there followed another extended silence.

"Have you given any thought to what you might want to do when you get out of here?" asked Ron.

"No, not really. So much has happened in the past few days. It's a lot to wrap my head around."

"Well, you'll be glad to know that while you were…you know…Kingsley, I mean, Minister Shacklebolt, awarded you the Order of Merlin, First Class for heroic efforts in the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry and me got one, too. So you'll be able to get any job you want at the Ministry," Ron said in an apparent attempt to lift her spirits.

As if the promise of a desk job at the sodding Ministry of Magic was something to look forward to. Did he honestly think that after wasting away for twelve years she was simply going to dust herself off and trot down to the Ministry to collect her grown up job and return to her rightful place in the wizarding world? How daft could he be? Did her friends even know her anymore? Had they ever truly known her?

"I think I'll just focus on my recovery for the time being."

"Of course," Ron said hastily, "'m being stupid."

"How's Ginny? And Susan?"

Her attempt at a light, breezy tone sounded false even to her own ears. But she figured she might as well get on with the worst part.

"How'd you know about Ginny and Suze?" Ron asked, with a definite air of concern.

"Malfoy told me."

"What else has he told you?" Harry asked a little too quickly.

"Nothing much. Why? What's the matter?"

Hermione thought she heard something strange in his tone. Guilt perhaps? But she couldn't be sure. Maintaining a conversation with her two best friends hadn't been this uncomfortable since that time they'd defeated the mountain troll in their first year at Hogwarts.

"Nothing. Ginny is great. She really wanted to come, but we didn't want to overwhelm you with visitors. That, and she needed to stay home with the kids. Our youngest, Lily, has a cold."

Harry Potter was a father. Malfoy told her as much, but she hadn't been able to picture either of them as parents until now. The last time she'd seen them they could barely take care of themselves, never mind support a family and raise children.

"What about you, Ron? When did you and Susan get married?"

She tried to remove any traces of accusation from her tone. After all, Ron didn't owe her anything. They were never technically together, though they had definitely been moving in that direction.

"Er…let's see…we've been married for, what, ten years now?" he questioned, turning to Harry for confirmation.

"Ten years? Wow. So soon after…"

"After what?" Ron asked stupidly.

"Nothing," Hermione replied. "Do you have any photos of your children?"

"Um, yeah," said Harry. He rifled in his pockets and handed her a few dog-eared wizarding photographs.

In the first, Harry and Ginny were pushing two little boys on a backyard swing set.

"That there is Albus, and the one pulling a face is my eldest, James," he said, smiling fondly.

The yard in question was unmistakably the burrow. Hermione recognized the ramshackle chicken coop in the background. Both boys were the spitting image of Harry with his black hair and his unmistakable green eyes, though there was also a sprinkling of freckles across their noses and matching mischievous smiles inherited from their mother.

The second photo needed no explanation. It was probably taken right in this very hospital. Ginny, looking flushed and exhausted, yet somehow radiant, was holding a tiny bundle of pink blankets while Harry gazed down lovingly at mother and daughter from the head of her hospital bed. Hermione had never seen him looking so happy or peaceful, and she was glad for him.

"Oh, this one was taken at Christmas, the year before last," Ron supplied. "Wow, I've put on weight since then," he added jovially, patting his abdomen.

The final image depicted a large, happy family gathered around the large scrub wood table in the burrow kitchen. There were garlands of greenery and fairy lights decorating the walls, and everyone donned the kind of silly hat typically pulled from a wizarding cracker.

Mr. Weasley sat at the head of the table wearing a coonskin cap, with a grandchild on each knee, laughing uproariously with George who was seated beside him, wearing a sparkly tiara. A tall, striking black woman stood smiling behind them with one arm draped around George's shoulder, the other supporting the small child balanced on her hip. Hermione recognized the woman as her former housemate Angelina Johnson. Ginny, who was seated next to her eldest brother and his wife, was smoothing the hair of a beautiful little blonde girl who could only be Bill and Fleur's daughter.

Other faces swam to the forefront the longer she looked. Percy and Mrs. Weasley wearing matching polka dot top hats; Charlie holding the hand of a tall, dark-skinned man whom Hermione did not recognize; and finally her eyes landed on Ron. He was wearing an old fashioned sailor's cap, and he was kissing a noticeably pregnant Susan. With one arm wrapped around her waist, and the other resting protectively on her stomach, the two where laughing in between kisses, as a boy who could only be Harry's son James stood on a chair dangling a sprig of mistletoe above their heads.

The scene was so perfect it looked as though it could've been staged. She unconsciously traced a finger over the familiar faces until the image began to blur as her eyes swam with tears. Her hands began to tremble in earnest, and the photographs slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

"Hermione?" Harry asked tentatively.

Hermione didn't know what she was expecting to see - a despondent Ron, gazing mournfully at an empty place at the table? She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't help imagining what they might have become.

She had to come to terms with the fact that there was no place for her at their table, and there never would be. They were getting along fine without her. They were better than fine. They were practically blissful. She didn't really imagine they would be pining over her for all these years, but seeing the evidence of their happiness while she's been rotting away in this sterile cell… It was too much for her to bear.

"Please go," she whispered.

"What?" Ron asked sounding shocked.

"Get out," she said more firmly, tears streaming freely down her face now.

"I'm sorry, we didn't mean to upset you," Harry started.

"Go!" she begged, her desperation plain. "GET OUT!" she finally bellowed, with much more strength and conviction than she felt.

The door flew open at her cry and the young trainee whom Malfoy had left to tend to her stood in the doorway looking frightened.

"Ms. Granger? Is anything the matter?"

She was shaking too violently to respond. The trainee rushed to her side, but Hermione could already feel that she was beyond help.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, kindly step out into the hall," the doe-eyed witch said with a level of composure which Hermione would've found impressive if she wasn't heaving and crying quite so much.

"What's happening to her?" asked Ron. He sounded terrified.

"Stand back," the younger woman commanded.

They must have obeyed because Hermione could no longer see them in her peripheral vision, but she could still feel their presence in the room.

"Please go," she pleased desperately. "I don't want you to see me like this."

Harry made to respond, but Hermione was soon beyond his reach. She temporarily lost all of her senses as her body jerked and contorted in pain. Her back arched toward the ceiling as the increasingly familiar sensation of blinding pressure was building steadily behind her eyes.

Rather than straining to keep whatever it was inside, Hermione opted instead to let go and ride it out, in the hopes that whatever this was would pass more quickly. Her hypothesis proved correct. Unlike her previous episodes, Hermione didn't black out. The pain was still unbelievable, but this time she was able to mentally step outside of herself and view what was happening to her like a third party observer.

As the pressure built, the lights in the room began to dim. The charm cast upon her window, which until moments ago depicted a cheery, sunny morning, vanished. Instead reflecting a shadowy, muggle alleyway. The lanterns lining the walls began to flicker until they all suddenly went out. Her limbs flailed wildly, she was sweating profusely, and to make her mortification complete, her bladder let go. At that exact moment, each globular lantern shattered. Casting a million tiny shards of glass in every direction.

"Reducto!" shouted Trainee Michaels, without a moment's hesitation.

It must have been an extremely powerful spell, because despite the fact that the young witch wasn't even holding a wand, the shards of flying glass transformed into even tinier specs of sand. Then whipping out her wand with such alacrity Hermione barely saw it, she called, "Impedimenta!" Rather than being engulfed by a cloud of sparkling sand, Hermione watched as it slowed and dropped harmlessly to the floor. The trainee whispered a third spell to vanish the dust, and then she was hovering over Hermione, her wand tip alight, searching for new injuries.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Hermione panted. Her heart was pounding and her breaths were coming in shallow gasps, but just as before, the pain was rapidly receding. "Your reflexes are impeccable."

"Thank you," the trainee replied automatically. Then turning to Harry and Ron she added, "Visiting hours are over for the day. Ms. Granger needs to rest."

"But she…" Ron started to protest.

"…Will be very well taken care of, I assure you." Turning to Harry she added, "Here are your wands."

Staring up at the ceiling in the hazy wand light, she listened as Trainee Michaels returned their wands, and Harry and Ron took their leave, promising to return in a few days. She wished they wouldn't, but was too tired to say as much.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Michaels inquired.

"Yes. Quite sure."

"I need to inform Healer Malfoy as well as the attending Healer on duty. Is there anything I can get you?"

"A change of clothes and bed linens would be nice."

"Of course," the younger witch replied. Though her demeanor was that of a consummate professional, she blushed furiously as she worked. Hermione wanted to die. She wanted nothing more than for the center of the earth to burst open and swallow her up so she would never have to feel like this again.

Once she had on clean pyjamas and Trainee Michaels had put fresh sheets on the bed – which was quite a feat without using magic – Hermione was feeling almost normal again, if you could call this appalling new reality normal. At least she wasn't crying or bleeding anymore, and her insides seemed content to stay there for the moment.

"Is there anything else?" the solicitous young woman asked.

"Yes there is," Hermione replied, reaching for the monstrous yellow flowers. "Take these away."

Her tone brooked no argument, and the young witch gave her none. The flowers were so huge, they obscured the woman's vision as she walked, and she fumbled to open the door. Almost as soon as she stepped over the threshold, there was a loud bang, and the trainee dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The giant blooms fell around her creating a ridiculous funeral pyre.

Hermione didn't have time to scream or even to be properly terrified, as a small man dressed in janitor's robes stepped over the fallen woman's body and approached her bed.

"'ello Ms. Granger," croaked a voice much deeper than his small frame implied.

In the next instant, she was blinded by a bright flash of light and engulfed in a cloud of curling green smoke.

.

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A/N: Thanks again to Aidenk77 for being an awesome beta!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

There was a faint buzzing coming from somewhere near Draco's left ear. Without opening his eyes, he groped around his bedclothes for the offending noisemaker and, grasping the thin piece of vibrating hawthorn, he mumbled the incantation to temporarily silence it.

"You keep using that snooze charm, you're going to miss another shift," said a familiar voice.

Draco responded with an unintelligible groan, which sounded like, "Unngghhh."

"Wakey wakey, ickle Drakey," the voice said in a high-pitched falsetto while jostling Draco's shoulder.

"Wh-what time is it?" Draco said, coming to.

"Time to get up."

"Ugh. Jesus, Gus. I need to put stronger wards on my flat," said Draco, shoving his face back into his pillow. "Your ugly mug is the last thing a man wants to see first thing."

"You're no peach at this time of the morning either," replied a smiling Gus.

Draco abruptly propped himself up.

"What do mean, this time of the morning? What time is it?"

"It's about time for you to get to work," replied Gus.

"What are you talking about? I'm on nights this week," yawned a thoroughly bemused Draco.

"You were on nights. Smethwyck pulled you out of the regular rotation when you didn't show up for your shift last night."

"I what?" Draco spluttered fully awake now.

"Well, apart from catching a few winks in Ms. Granger's room, you can't have gotten more than a couple hours sleep in the past few days. You can't go on like that, mate. It's not healthy. And I'm a healer, I should know," said Gus, sagely.

"Fuck," said Draco. "The last thing I need is Smethwyck crawling up my arse right now. That's why I volunteered to pull graveyards this week in the first place."

"Sorry, man. It's done now. Here," he added, handing Draco a takeaway cup full of hot, black coffee.

"Thanks," Draco said grudgingly. "How long before my shift starts?"

"Well, the morning shift started twenty minutes ago, but you're not technically on the morning shift. You're not technically on any shift. In fact, I'm pretty sure Smethwyck suspended you."

"He what?!" Draco spluttered.

"Well, he was pretty upset after the incident yesterday afternoon, but I'm sure he's cooled off by now," said Gus, in a tone that left Draco thoroughly unconvinced of his friend's assertions.

"Incident? What incident? What happened?" Draco asked hurriedly, leaping up from the bed.

"Of course, you'd already left… Well, there was a bit of a disturbance in Ms. Granger's room during her visit with Potter and Weasley."

"What the fuck did those idiots do?" Draco practically growled.

"Easy there, tiger. I don't think they did anything apart from talk to her."

Draco knew the damage words could do was equal to that of any spell, but he didn't bring it up. Instead he repeated his original question.

"What happened to her?"

"Relax. Ms. Granger is fine. She had another one of her episodes. Michaels was there in an instant. Kept her from any real danger."

"Did Potter and Weasley cause this _episode_ , as you call it?"

"If they weren't the cause, they certainly witnessed it," Gus replied. "Ms. Granger didn't seem too happy about it in either case."

"No, I don't suppose she would be," said Draco.

"That's not the worst bit. After Michaels had mopped up, some bloke in maintenance staff robes broke into Granger's room. He stunned poor Michaels and, well…here. See for yourself."

Gus tossed Draco a rolled up copy of _The Daily Prophet_. He unfurled the paper and, to his horror, saw a photo of Hermione on the cover - a recent photo. She was sitting in her hospital bed, red-faced and puffy, staring directly into the camera. Her bandages doing little to conceal the stricken look on her face. Above the photo the headline read:

 _EXCLUSIVE! HERMIONE GRANGER SUFFERS TRAUMA AT HEALERS' HANDS:_

 _DRACO MALFOY ACCUSED OF ABUSE AND NEGLECT_

 _Highly controversial healer and head of the Permanent Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Draco Malfoy, came under fire when photographs surfaced depicting war heroine, Hermione Granger, covered in bandages after Malfoy refused to let veteran mediwitch, Louise Thomson, heal several abrasions sustained during an alleged accident on hospital grounds. An eyewitness to the incident claims Healer Malfoy strictly forbade Thomson from using basic healing spells on Ms. Granger's multiple injuries saying, "No magic," and "Let them heal on their own." Even resorting to a crude muggle potion called "Iodine." These new developments are leading some in the wizarding community to call into question the motives of Healer Malfoy, a known Death Eater…_

Naturally, the article was written under Rita Skeeter's byline, and so far, the only person actually accusing Draco of anything was Skeeter herself. But Draco knew these sorts of articles always drove the weirdos out of the woodwork. Soon there would be countless nut jobs 'breaking their silence' and spouting rubbish to anyone who'd listen, gleefully collecting their fifteen minutes of fame at Draco's expense. Draco supposed he should've known better than to bait her at the press conference. She was a right vindictive bitch, if only half of the rumors about her were true.

The worst part is Draco knew exactly how Skeeter had overheard his orders for Hermione's treatment protocol. Sure, it had been an emergency situation, but he should've been more careful. It wasn't enough to assume privacy even behind closed doors. Even if Skeeter hadn't been an animagus, there are plenty of charms and devices that make it possible to eavesdrop from a safe distance, and there were quite a few people milling about in the corridors that morning. He knew that fucking janitor looked suspicious. He should've had the security wizards from the Ministry detain him for questioning. His exhaustion made him sloppy. He'd not make that mistake twice. Assuming he still had a job, that is.

Draco scanned the remainder of the article. It was full of the same old tosh about his former allegiance with the Death Eaters and _He-Who's-Legacy-Never-Seems-to-Fucking-Die_. Beneath the article was a rolling ticker, which allowed witches and wizards to register their opinions on the article in real time. It was a recent update to the _Prophet,_ which had supposedly been modeled after some stupid muggle rubbish called Twidder or something. Now, any lunatic with access to a protean-charmed parchment could chime in with whatever nonsense they liked. It was fast becoming an inescapable annoyance in wizarding media. The general consensus seemed to be that Draco should be sacked immediately.

"Don't read the comments mate," Gus warned. "Nothing good has ever come from reading the comments."

"Fuck," Draco breathed.

"Yeah," Gus commiserated.

"On a scale of one to rampaging hippogriff, how pissed is Smethwyck?"

"Too soon to tell, but I'd get to Mungo's on the quickish and start doing damage control if I were you."

"Right," said Draco, glancing at Hermione's photo again feeling an increasingly familiar weight in his stomach.

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Gus.

"I'm right behind you. Thanks, mate," Draco said, lifting his takeaway coffee cup in Gus's general direction, before downing it in one.

"See you at the shop," Gus replied with a nod, before stepping into the fireplace's engulfing green flames.

oooOOOooo

When Draco arrived at Hermione's room, Gus was waiting for him outside of the closed door. They could clearly hear voices within. Apparently, despite the events of the previous day, Smethwyck hadn't bothered to cast a muffliato charm on the room.

With a silent nod of assent, Draco and Gus pressed their ears to the door to listen. He could only imagine how ludicrous they must look, two fully trained healers eavesdropping like overgrown children, but their embarrassment paid immediate dividends.

"Miss Granger, I can't tell you how sorry I am. This sort of security breach is wholly unacceptable, and I assure you, the proper authorities have been alerted," said a simpering Smethwyck. "I have removed Healer Malfoy as your primary healer. You won't have to deal with him anymore. Now then, Mediwitch Thompson, please heal Ms. Granger's abrasions."

"No," replied Hermione.

"No?" questioned Smethwyck. "Come now Ms. Granger, don't be ridiculous. I don't know what Malfoy is playing at, but at this hospital when a patient can be healed, we heal them. Not leave them to suffer like some poor muggle."

"I said no," Hermione repeated firmly.

"Well, at least allow me to examine you…" Smethwyck pressed.

"Don't you touch me," she said with such venom it made the hairs on the back of Draco's neck prickle.

"Please, Ms. Granger," Smethwyck pleaded pathetically. "I've filed a complaint with the Ministry against _The Prophet_ for violation of privacy. Security has been doubled. I'm doing everything in my power to make this right."

"I want to leave. Discharge me immediately."

"Ms. Granger, I'm afraid I can't do that. Until you are physically capable of leaving on your own, the only way I can discharge you is for someone to act as your temporary guardian."

"That's completely unacceptable. I'm of sound mind, if not sound body, and I wish to be transferred to a proper hospital."

"I understand your frustration, and I respect your wishes, but, as I'm sure you know, this is the only fully equipped hospital in Britain, and I think it unwise for you to risk international travel under the present…circumstances," finished Smethwyck, sheepishly.

"I don't particularly care what you think. If you won't discharge me, then I'll…"

"You'll what, Ms. Granger?" said Draco, barging somewhat clumsily into the small room, which felt even more cramped with the addition of Mediwitch Thompson and his corpulent boss hovering over Hermione's bed like a fussy nursemaid.

"Malfoy! What do you think you're doing?" Smethwyck spluttered in surprise.

"I'm here to check on my patient," Draco responded calmly, but defiantly.

"As far as I'm concerned, you have no patients. I will be taking over Ms. Granger's care until a suitable Healer can be found to replace you."

"Sir," Draco began, but Smethwyck cut him off, pointing a pudgy, accusatory finger in Draco's face.

"You will follow me to my office at once, and there we will discuss whether or not you have a future at this hospital."

"Chief, at least give him the chance to explain," Gus said, from the still open doorway.

"Keep out of this Augustus," Smethwyck snapped. "Shouldn't you be downstairs in your own ward?" he added menacingly.

"Sir, I just think you're being rather unreasonable is all…"

"That's quite enough!" came a stern voice of mediwitch Thompson.

"Louise!" exclaimed the chief.

"Perhaps the three of you have forgotten, but we have a patient here who requires our attention. Kindly take your petty squabbling outside."

The three men were instantly chastened. Louise Thompson, always a kind, motherly presence in the hospital, suddenly reminded Draco of his old Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts when she gave a stern dressing down to an errant student.

"Now then, Ms. Granger," Louise continued in a much gentler tone, "is there anything I can get you? Some tea, perhaps? Or another pillow?"

"I'd like to go home," Hermione said in a small voice from the center of the fray.

Draco felt for Hermione, but he saw no sense in lying to her.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but for the time being this is your home." He hastened to add, "I promise to find you new accommodations as soon as they can be arranged."

"Now see here!" Smethwyck protested, but with a glance from Mediwitch Thompson, he deflated.

"If you'll all excuse me, I'd like some privacy to examine my patient now," Draco said pointedly.

"Very well," said Smethwyck grudgingly. "But I haven't finished with you yet," the elder wizard threatened.

"No, I'd imagine not," said Draco as the others took their leave. Then, turning to Hermione, "May I examine your injuries?"

"If you must," she sighed.

The feeling of relief he experienced at seeing Hermione whole and mostly healthy, was immediately replaced by guilt as he inspected the dozen or so abrasions on her pale skin. Mostly he felt awful for leaving her alone with Potter and Weasley. None of this would've happened if he hadn't been so careless. The lead weight in stomach felt suddenly heavier.

"Your wounds seem to be healing nicely."

"Do they? How wonderful," she retorted. "Out of curiosity, why didn't you let the mediwitch heal me? Revenge for that time I slapped you in third year?"

"Granger, I might have been an ass, but even I'm not that vindictive…at least not all of the time."

"Then why?" she prodded.

"I honestly don't know," he confessed, feeling uncomfortable again. "Call it healer's intuition, but I just didn't think that a magical solution was the proper treatment for you. If you're in any discomfort, of course I can heal them for you. Just say the word."

"No, it's all right. I've had much worse," she said darkly. He knew she was referring to the time his mad aunt tortured her in his family's drawing room, and he felt instantly worse. But rather than confront his gnawing guilt, Draco opted instead to fall back on his favorite Slytherin coping mechanisms: distract and deflect.

"I understand there's been quite a lot of excitement in my absence," he said in a manner that was shockingly cavalier, as he peered under the last of her bandages.

"Oh yes, it's been terribly exciting," she said, swatting his hand away.

Draco was pleased to see that with her sarcasm came a slight brightening of her eyes.

"It must be gratifying to know that after all these years you still rate the front page," he said, removing his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ from the pocket of his robes and tossing it on the bed.

"You vile, little ferret!" she said, snatching up the paper and feverishly scanning the text. "I can't believe Rita Skeeter is still up to her old tricks. Odious woman..."

Hermione went on, muttering darkly under her breath. Draco struggled to contain the smirk threatening to break out across his lips. She was still so easily riled. It was nice to know that some things never changed.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Hermione looked up from her reading and gave him a withering look.

"I had another attack, or episode, or whatever you want to call it," she huffed, clearly irritated by his tone, but also seemingly eager to discuss the incident.

"Any theories as to what may have caused this attack?" Draco queried in a decent imitation of dispassionate professionalism.

"Nothing concrete, but I was experiencing some strong emotions at the time…" Hermione hedged, turning her attention back to the paper. It appeared she would prefer not to go into detail about the cause of these strong emotions. If he was being honest, he was equally reluctant to hear it.

"I see," said Draco. _Distract and deflect._ "Any changes from your previous episodes?"

"Well, I didn't lose consciousness this time…"

"Really? Interesting."

"Still hurt like a bastard though."

Draco let out a bark of laughter at that. Hermione smiled in return.

"Looks like the wider wizarding world is none too happy with you," she said, turning her attention back to the newspaper.

"Yeah, well. It still beats a howler."

"How did they manage this?" she said, gesturing to the comments section below the article. "Protean charm?"

"Right in one," Draco replied, marveling at her diamond sharp intellect, and the ease with which she accepted the latest innovations in spell casting.

"Think he'll sack you?"

"Nah. I've weaseled my way out of worse."

"I'm sure you have," said Hermione, her smile vanishing.

Draco instantly regretted his choice of word.

"I'm sorry Ms. Granger, with everything that's happened in the past few days, I haven't thought to ask if there's anyone the hospital should have informed about your recovery? Apart from Potter, I mean. Your parents, or…?"

"My parents are dead."

"Oh. I thought I understood from Potter that they were abroad…"

"Harry was mistaken. My parents are gone. I lost them long before I… They've been gone for a very long time," she said, with dreadful finality.

"I'm sorry," said Draco, and he meant it. "Is there anyone else you'd like me to contact?"

"No. There's no one else." It looked like it cost her to say the words out loud. "When can I get out of here?"

"Not until you are physically strong enough."

"I know there aren't any other wizarding hospitals in the area, but couldn't I convalesce at a muggle hospital?"

"With you blowing up the light fixtures every other day? I don't think so. Unfortunately, Healer Smethwyck was correct in saying that your only way out of here is if you are discharged to a temporary guardian. Preferrably someone who can hire a private healer."

"That settles that, I suppose."

"What about Potter or Weasley?"

"No," she said flatly. "Absolutely not."

Draco was inexplicably relieved by her response, and the knot in his abdomen loosened a bit.

There came a soft knock at the door, and Draco opened it to see Gus peering over his shoulder down the corridor. "Is it safe to come in?"

"Yeah, he's gone," said Draco, stepping aside to allow his friend into the room. "Ms. Granger, allow me to introduce you to Healer Augustus Pye."

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Granger," said Gus, performing a jaunty little bow.

"I know you!" Hermione exclaimed. "You're the trainee healer who tried to stitch up Arthur Weasley's snake bite!"

"Well, yes, but - I'm not a trainee anymore," said Gus with no small amount of discomfiture.

"You what?" Draco said, barely able to contain his glee at this tidbit of news.

"That was a long time ago," Gus said, blushing furiously. "I've learned a thing or two about snake venom since then, thank you very much."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "It's very nice to meet you, Healer Pye."

"Oh come now, none of that Healer Pye stuff. Call me Gus."

"Very well, Gus. Aren't you the one who's married to Penelope Clearwater? How is Penny?"

"How in Merlin's name did you know that?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "Malfoy must have told me."

"I don't think so," said Draco.

"That's strange," said Gus. "Have any seer blood in your family?"

"Hardly," Hermione snorted.

"Maybe you've developed some latent talent for divination?"

"Anything is possible," said Draco, knowing Hermione's feelings on the subject.

"No it most certainly is not. I'm sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for how I came to possess that particular bit of information."

"Just as you say," said Gus, shrinking a bit at Granger's vehement protestations. "Oh, Draco, I almost forgot to tell you, Michaels was asking for you. I think she wants to apologize for what happened yesterday, but she's down the other end of the ward and Healer Robbins won't let poor Michaels out of her sight."

Draco felt another brief pang of guilt. He'd completely forgotten about Michaels getting hit with that stunning spell. Thankfully it hadn't been anything worse.

"Michaels – is she the trainee witch who was stunned? How is she?"

"She'll be just fine," said Gus. "If I know Michaels, she's already chomping at the bit to get back to work."

"Indeed," said Draco. "Reminds me of someone else I used to know," he added with a look at Hermione.

He couldn't tell if she was blushing, because she turned away from him, suddenly very interested in the pattern of her hospital robes.

"Well, you two had better go and check in on that trainee of yours. Please convey my thanks and my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

"Will do," said Gus. "It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Granger. I'll visit again soon, if you don't mind."

"Of course. I'd like that very much." Hermione replied with such warmth, Draco felt a moment's irritation with his friend. "It was lovely to meet you, Gus."

"See you later, Drake," Gus winked at him before beating a hasty retreat from the room. He knew how much Draco loathed the nickname.

"Drake?"

"Don't," Draco warned in mock admonition.

"Right you are, Drake," she teased.

He let it slide, glad that he was leaving her in reasonably good spirits for once.

"Are you sure you'll be all right on your own for a while?" asked Draco.

"I'm fine," she said. "Though perhaps you could cast a quick revealing charm to check if there are any unwanted visitors about before I start confessing my darkest secrets aloud."

"Already done," said Draco. She was half kidding, but she looked relieved all the same. "I'll look in on you later, okay?"

"Assuming you still have a job," she said archly.

"Naturally," he replied with a small smile.

"Draco," she called after him.

"Yes?" he replied, his heart in his throat.

"Thank you."

He didn't trust himself to look her in the eyes, so he gave a small bow and turned from the room. It was the first time she ever called him by his first name.

.

To be continued...

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A/N: To those of you who've been waiting for an update - thank you so much for your patience! I sort of wrote myself into a corner in this chapter and had a devil of a time finding my way out. Thanks to all who have alerted/followed/reviewed! I will finish this story. Not for a long while yet, as there is much more slow-burning Dramione to come, but I will finish!


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